


Michael Myers Requests

by Rebel_Wolf



Category: Halloween - Fandom, Michael Myers - Fandom
Genre: Additional tags to be added with future chapters, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Emotional pain, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Forced Submission, Hurt Michael, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Knife tracing, Knifeplay, Marking, Michael may be strong but he’s still human, Murder, Night Terrors, Open requests, Possessive Behavior, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, neck biting, non-major character death, voices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Wolf/pseuds/Rebel_Wolf
Summary: We created this work so that anyone can comment Michael Myers prompt suggestions.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader
Comments: 53
Kudos: 166





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> We had this idea because not only do we want to provide our original Michael works for you, but also get an input of what you would like to read from us as well. We’re sure that this probably won’t go far—or if it even goes anywhere at all—but we very much appreciate your support. Either way, we did this so we could see your suggestions, and maybe even make these stories a little more personal to all of you. Any requests are welcome!
> 
> \- Rebel & Wolf 🖤

To request a work, just comment on this chapter what you would like to see us write, and we’ll write it as soon as we can. We will also most likely reply to your comment when we write your request, so be on the lookout for a reply once you request. Any requests are welcome, and we would love to see what you would like us to write! 


	2. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader suffers from night terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Request by SaveTheBestForLast
> 
> \- I hope you like this!

The night air was crisp as Michael took in steady breaths through his mask. He had gone out for a walk, the darkness of the world around him easing his tension, simply allowing him some form of freedom—knowing everyone had gone to sleep. But he was reminded not too long into his walk that he was not alone in his head. They first returned as whispers, prompting Michael to head back home in order to grab his favored weapon, hoping to repress the raging urge growing within him.

He quietly stepped in through your back porch door, entering into the kitchen and wasting no time in grabbing his knife. Just as he was about to turn and leave though, beginning his hunt, he heard soft troubled sounds coming from upstairs. Tilting his head, curiosity got the better of him and he was lead upstairs by his interest.

The source of the noise was coming from your bedroom he could tell as he ascended the stairs. But just as he reached the top, the small sounds escaping from behind the door abruptly turned to screams of horror.

Danger signals immediately went off in Michael’s head, and he briskly approached the door, ripping it open expecting to find an attacker behind it tormenting you. However, there was nobody there, and he was instead met with your terror-stricken form, your screams filling the room and drowning out the voices in his head. He tilted his head at you as he studied your body, flailing about on your bed, not quite sure what was wrong with you. He then realized you were having some night terror or whatever it was called—you only really briefly mentioned it the first time it happened and he was around to witness it. He still didn’t understand what exactly they were; he hardly dreamed, and even if he did, he couldn’t see why one would cause such horrible fear.

You kept screaming, your body thrashing around helplessly, and Michael grew tired of hearing your cries of panic; something about it unsettled him—comparing your fear towards seemingly nothing to his victims terrified of losing their lives to him.

So he stepped forward and in two large strides reached the side of your bed. His focus was on you and you only—his predatory thoughts completely gone from his mind as he firmly grabbed your upper arms and held you down to the bed to end your struggling. This did not stop you from wriggling—your legs kicking frantically behind him and your head thrashing from side to side. He crawled onto the mattress, moving one leg in between both of your legs and resting on his knees above you. His hands remained in a tough grip on your biceps, holding you down against the bed to keep you as steady as possible.

What to do next—he wasn’t sure, but then he remembered in your quick conversation with him about your night terrors that you were usually able to wake yourself up before they could happen. So, in an attempt to wake you, he roughly shook you. At first, you only continued screaming, your voice going hoarse from it’s constant, intense use. So he tried again, lifting you up to a sitting position as he shook you roughly once more.

Warm, calloused hands gripping your arms, heat engulfing you from a body close by, and sudden aggressive movements shaking you back and forth brought you back to reality. You were taking in breaths rapidly as you frantically looked around the setting you were in, your eyes landing on the white, emotionless mask in front of you. From how long you’d suffered from night terrors, you were able to calm yourself down rather quickly through bringing your focus to your breathing. The warmth of Michael’s hands still firmly holding your arms only helped to ground you, and you looked into the blackness of his mask’s eyeholes with gratitude—knowing that somewhere beneath that cloak of darkness his own eyes were looking back at you.

His breathing remained heavy for a few more moments before he slowly started to sink back on the bed to sit, and you brought your knees up to your chest so he wouldn’t crush your leg.

You sat in silence. He watched you expectantly—like you were going to start screaming again. You stared down at the bed, trying to rid your mind of any negativity, and flood your mind with calming thoughts and images. Your thoughts drifted to Michael, and how glad you were that he woke you and didn’t allow your terror to continue like it sometimes would until the episode ended. You wondered why he was home though; you thought he’d gone out on his nightly hunts, which only confused you even more. Why did he care to wake you up in the first place?

When Michael concluded that you were fine and wouldn’t start seizing again, he stood and started to leave. However he was stopped when your hand shot out and grasped his wrist. He turned to you with a glare, waiting for your reasoning behind your boldness to grab at him.

You only looked at him with slight desperation behind your eyes, a fear lingering that he couldn’t quite place. “ _Stay,_ ” was all you whispered, your voice raspy.

And something in him softened.

He quietly sat back down on the edge of the bed, watching with no emotion as your tense body relaxed with relief and fell back onto the mattress, covering yourself up with blankets and sinking into your pillow.

The voices in his head remained silent as he watched your chest slowly rise and fall while you slept. He couldn’t place exactly what it was that made him stay, whether it was the rareness of the tranquility that suddenly quieted his mind, or the memory of your screams of terror—the pure horror you felt—a horror he had no control over, and had no responsibility for. So he watched you sleep peacefully, a small part of him feeling content with the feeling of his own peace stirring within him knowing you were safe, and that the voices would let him rest.


	3. His Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader gets a visit from a friend, and Michael is not okay with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Rebel & Wolf  
> Request by Foxmay29
> 
> \- I hope we captured the possessiveness of our Mikey Boi like you had wanted! Enjoy Michael making sure you know you’re HIS source of food and affection 😉

Brisk knocks at your front door pulled you away from the tv that you were currently watching. The weatherman faintly spoke the forecast of the week as you got up from your couch. _Who is that? I’m not expecting visitors._

“No soliciting! I don’t want whatever it is you have!” You shouted at the door.

The knocks rapped the door again, and with a frustrated sigh, you approached the door.

Unlocking the door, turning the knob, and thrusting it open, you repeated, “I _said_ no—“ you were abruptly cut off by the face that met yours on your doorstep.

“James?!” you exclaimed, taken aback by your friend’s sudden appearance. You hadn’t seen him in years, so this unexpected visit had you at a loss for words—the Shape’s presence looming in the darkness behind you completely forgotten.

“Hey (y/n)!” he greeted, smiling wide.

“It’s so good to see you, oh my gosh!” you expressed, pulling him inside for a big hug.

In the shadows of your house, the Shape tensed.

“You too! Sorry about coming by so late and for it being out of the blue. I was planning on shooting you a text but I was already right by your house so I thought, why not?” James laughed as he pulled away from the hug.

“Naw man it’s fine! I just finished up dinner like an hour ago if you’d like anything—there are lots of leftovers, and it’s not like I’m gonna be able to eat them all,” you said, and the Shape glared at you behind his cloak of darkness.

“Nah I don’t need anything, McDonald’s has fulfilled my needs for now.”

You laughed and gestured to the couches in your living room. “Come, sit!” you insisted as you sat down on a sofa nearby.

James took his seat on a chair to the side of you, leaning forward and wasting no time asking about you and your life. “So! How are you?”

“Great! You? It’s been years!!”

“I know, I wish we would’ve gotten together sooner but I haven’t had the time.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “I’ve had my hands full here as well...” you trailed off, realizing you two were not alone halfway through your sentence.

“What? Am I missing something?” James asked, catching onto your slight discomfort.

“Um, no! Just the job and stuff, it’s been a time,” you recovered, glancing around once before grudgingly accepting that you had no idea where this third presence was.

“I’ll bet nothing like that time you had working for Dairy Queen,” James joked, bringing back the memories that resided with your past workplace.

“Oh my gosh, don’t even bring it up,” you said, putting your head in your hands.

“I wonder if he still has your number...”

“No, James!” you cried.

“Only one way to find out,” he said in a deep voice, slowly moving his gaze to your phone resting on the coffee table in front of you.

Like lightening, you both shot out from your seats towards your sacred phone, James landing somewhat on top of you as you reached the device first. You fell to the floor by his weight and he took this time to try to grab your phone from you. “No!” you wheezed, using all the strength you had in your arms to push yourself back and over onto your backside, successfully crushing James beneath you. “Ah hah!” you triumphed as you sat up and turned to pin him down to the floor, tossing your phone onto the couch to keep it away from him in the process.

The Shape tightened his grip on his knife, knuckles going white.

“Well then,” James said with resignation. “You really haven’t changed one bit, have you,” he chuckled.

“Nope. Still just like old times, when I used to beat the crap out of you—“

“—Yeah for literally everything! With and without reason!” he complained as you pushed yourself off of him to a standing position.

“Oh I had my reasons,” you replied, offering him your hand to help him up, which he took reluctantly. You then felt a familiar tingle on the back of your neck as James walked past you back to his seat on your chair. When you turned however, there was still no one there.

“What’s a matter?” James asked.

“Oh—nothing, just felt like I pulled something when I stood up,” you lied weakly.

James grinned. “Guess things _have_ changed you old bat.”

“Ex _cuse_ me, I happen to go for jogs nearly every morning, I’m on a diet, and I did win against you just now after years without wrestling at all,” you retorted.

James laughed. “Like that has anything to do with anything,” he said as he rolled his eyes.

“It does! It shows that I am very healthy,” you replied with pride, closing your eyes and holding your head high.

“Sure, okay,” James mumbled, humor still eminent in his voice.

When you reopened your eyes with your laughter, they were suddenly drawn into the kitchen by a large figure standing ominously no doubt glaring daggers at the both of you. Your heart felt like it dropped in your chest and your laughing was abruptly caught in your throat as you watched it slowly turn and head out of your sight.

“Alright well I’m gonna go get some water, if that’s okay,” James said, standing up from his chair.

“Yeah yeah that’s fine,” you responded airily, tearing your eyes from the kitchen doorway to give him a small smile, your mind still holding the image of the figure, the Shape.

When James started walking towards that very area in which the figure stood, you were immediately brought back to reality as you realized the danger he might be in.

“James wait no don’t go in there!” you yelled, standing up and holding out a hand as if to warn him.

He stopped just short of the doorway and turned back at you with slight worry. “Why, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“I um—the floors—I uhh—I just waxed the floors!” you stuttered, watching as James’ eyes narrowed at you.

“Okaayy,” he said slowly. “Well I guess it’s getting pretty late and you, my friend, need to go to bed,” he chuckled, causing you to sigh in relief as he walked towards the front door away from his impending doom.

“Yeah, yup, definitely need to rest, it’s been a long day,” you responded while you made your way over to him to walk him to the door.

“Well, thanks for letting me drop by anyways. We need to get together sometime soon!” he said, pulling you in for another hug.

“Yeah def—initely...” your words died away from watching with horror over James’ shoulder as the Shape returned from the shadows in the kitchen, slowly stalking right towards you both. “Well uh—it was great to see you!” you quickly pushed away from his hug, “We’ll for sure need to get together soon!” you opened the front door and shoved him towards the exit, “I’ll text you later!” you blocked the doorway with your body, hoping to hide the looming figure approaching you.

“I—“

“Bye!!” you said cheerfully, and slammed the door shut. You sighed as you turned and rested your back against it, and immediately tensed up again as you looked up at the Shape standing mere inches away from you.

Michael looked down at you with fire in his eyes. All you could do was stand there, voice caught in your throat, as you returned his gaze apologetically. You both stood like that as you listened to the sound of a car door opening and closing, an engine revving up, and tires backing out of a driveway and turning into the street, driving away.

And just like that, you were alone with the Shape’s wrath.

“Michael I—“

He stepped closer to you, staring down at you menacingly.

You craned your neck up so you could meet his intense, black eyes, and you found that you were hardly breathing in anticipation for whatever was to come.

When nothing came, you continued. “Michael I had no idea he would come—no idea at all, and if I did, I would’ve said some other time—“

You were cut off by his hand grasping your neck, choking you against the surface of the door behind you. Your hands hopelessly clawed at his own, trying in vain to pry away the large fist at your throat.

“Please... Michael... he’s... just a friend,” you croaked in between desperate gasps for breath.

Michael continued to glare at you, studying you closely—the way you pleaded for his mercy, the way you made excuses to save yourself. There was only one answer to this situation, and if you didn’t know it by now, he would make sure you would never forget it again.

Taking advantage of the darkness in which you were both engulfed by, he slowly released his grip on your neck to move his hands to the bottom of his mask. While you coughed and cried, he took his time to lift off the latex that hid him away, looking down at you and waiting for you to regain your composure so he could continue. When you looked back up at him and noticed his bare face, you were surprised, but that surprise turned to fear as you thought about what that meant was next. Even though the shadows casted across his face made it difficult to make out any features, you could still see the fierceness that his eyes held.

Michael took a step closer to you—so close that you couldn’t continue looking up at him or you’d strain your neck. You heard the sound of latex hitting the floor and shortly after, felt soft puffs of air hitting the top of your forehead.

The room was dead silent, save for Michael’s steady breathing and the random gasps that escaped your mouth. But you held your breath when you felt Michael gradually bend down, keeping his face close to your body, and stopping at your neck. He lingered there for a moment until slowly and lightly placing his lips on the sensitive skin of your throat. You closed your eyes tightly and waited anxiously, not sure if you were excited or scared.

Michael suddenly brought his hands to your upper arms, harshly gripping them to press you firmly against the door at your back. You released the breath you were holding in shock, deducing you were more fearful than anything. And when you felt Michael’s mouth open against your neck and his teeth sink into your skin, you clamped your lips together to conceal your cry of pain, and whimpered. When he released from his bite, Michael took his time to graze his teeth up your neck to your jaw, moving up further to your ear. You could feel his eyes on you, watching you darkly as he pressed himself further into you before putting his mouth to your ear and growling, “ _Mine._ ”

You froze.

Michael never spoke to you.

His voice was intense and hoarse, likely from years of no use, and the way it struck your very core made you shiver.

After a few more moments, he slightly pulled away from you, and you continued to stare straight ahead in disbelief, your breathing uneven and body completely tense. He kept watching you closely, his gaze unfaltering and heated—whether it was with anger or lust, you couldn’t tell.

But your question was somewhat answered when you felt his hands leave your arms and then cool steel touch your side.

You gasped, holding your breath again when you registered the knife Michael held against your skin under your shirt. Tears welled up in your eyes as he leisurely moved the blade up your body, your shirt threatening to tear from the sharpness of the weapon.

Lack of air caused you to release a sudden cry and you felt the tears in your eyes trickle down your cheeks.

The blade stopped.

Michael removed it from under your shirt and your body involuntarily relaxed at the absence of the weapon that endangered your skin. You found courage to look up at Michael, silently asking for this to end.

He tilted his head.

You were paralyzed once more as his knife came into view, this time being rested against your cheek. Michael studied the way your tears fell against his blade, tilting his head to the other side as they met the steel. Looking at the fear in your eyes one more time, he turned his focus back to the knife which he slowly moved down your cheek, across your jaw, tracing down your neck and reaching your chest with an agonizingly slow pace. You were just waiting for the tip to pierce your skin. And when it reached the middle of your breastbone, it did.

You whimpered again as Michael drew a thin line of blood down the center of your chest, watching with hunger as the scarlet red dripped down your sternum, seemingly teasing him as it followed the curve of your breast and then disappeared beneath the collar of your shirt.

Entranced by the way your skin easily bled by his blade, he continued his markings, bringing the tip of his knife back to the top of the first drawn line, and proceeding to carve 3 more connecting lines. Your quiet cries only spurred him on as he took in the way your chest rose and fell rapidly from your ragged breathing, ignoring the tears that fell on his knife and hand.

When he finished, he stepped back, studying his work—his (y/n).

Taking in a deep breath, you slowly looked down at his carvings.

Engraved in your chest, was the letter “M”.

Your legs suddenly felt weak, part of you wanted to pass out, and the other part just wanted to continue to sob in a ball on the floor. To keep from falling over, you flung your arms around Michael, holding onto him hopelessly as you cried into his strong chest. The blood that still beaded your chest and soaked into your shirt had also spread into Michael’s coveralls.

He remained silent and still, arms at his sides.

“I’m so sorry, Michael—yes, I’m yours—I’m yours Michael—I’m so sorry—don’t hurt him it’s not his fault—please forgive me—please leave him alone—“ you were pleading in between your sobs, your hands wandering frantically about Michael’s muscular form, practically clawing at him.

He enjoyed the feeling of you desperately clinging to him, your fingers digging into his body as if to bring him closer to you—him, and only him.

“I will always be yours Michael,” you cried, and Michael snapped. With everything he did, there was reason, and his reason right now was to make _sure_ you knew that you were his. He didn’t want to hear any false statements on account of the desperation for your life that you had. So he roughly grabbed your thighs, lifting you up and keeping you against him—you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist and gripped his neck tightly. He carried you upstairs as your crying somewhat softened against his shoulder and aggressively yanked open your bedroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he entered.

Uncaring and roughly, he had his way with you. No matter your reassurances to him that you were his, he needed more. He needed actions, not words. He made you show him how much of you was his—so you willingly and somewhat fearfully obeyed what he demanded of you. And later that night, after you’d quickly fallen into a deep sleep, Michael left you so he could finish what you had started.

Watching the life leave James’ eyes as he plunged his knife deep into his abdomen, he was at last satisfied that you would understand who you were to him. And when he crawled back into bed with you, and you subconsciously grabbed onto his coveralls tightly while you slept, he relished in your need to be close to him.

Because you were his. And only his.


	4. At His Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the Shape’s victims fights back, and the reader has to help with the injury Michael has suffered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Request by SaveTheBestForLast 
> 
> \- Sorry this took a bit to be written, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! This actually turned out to be a bit more graphic than I intended... oops. It’s Michael though, we all had it coming.

Blood splattered across Michael’s coveralls as he stabbed his knife into the woman’s stomach, her screams turning to gargles as blood arose in her throat, her face draining of color. With one final push of his blade—only getting stopped by the handle reaching her body—the woman went limp in his hold, and Michael pulled out his knife to let her fall to the floor, blood pooling at his feet as he stared down at her now completely lifeless eyes.

“Jess? I got us some—“ a man, presumably the woman—Jess’s husband entered through the front door, arms full of groceries. He stopped dead in his tracks as he caught sight of the massacre in the kitchen, the large and menacing man standing over his wife’s now dead body.

“ _Shhhit!!_ ” he exclaimed, shock still clear on his face. He dropped the bags, groceries completely forgotten as Michael moved to continue his hunt, stepping over his slaughtered prey.

The man grabbed a lamp that rested nearby on a small table in the living room. When he turned to use it against the killer, he found that he was mere inches from him. He screamed as the Shape’s knife rose above him, coming down hard and narrowly missing as the terrified man just barely dodged it. The man then raised the lamp above his head and brought it down hard on the murderer, receiving a grunt as the lamp shattered against his muscular body, shards flying everywhere, but not enough to stop the masked man.

Michael stood back up to his full height, watching with a hateful glare as his new victim ran to the kitchen to grab a weapon of his own. He stalked after him as the man searched, grabbing something quickly and turning back around with a bread knife. His eyes were wild with fear and adrenaline as he watched the masked man stop and tilt his head, eyeing the blade he held in his hand.

“Yeah!! You like that you crazy bastard?! Come get me!!” the man taunted, the knife giving him some amount of bravery.

Michael lifted his eyes back up to his prey. The voices were loud. The satisfaction that would come from this kill gnawed at him. He was hungry.

He took a step forward, and the man’s stance seemed to falter before, with a growl of fury—mind set on revenge for his beloved wife—he lunged at the Shape, his blade hardly piercing his side, clearly not going to stop the large hand that grasped his throat. As he choked and swung his knife around hopelessly, he felt his feet slightly lift off the ground, tightening his airway even more.

Michael’s breaths were heavy with hunger while he watched with satisfaction as the man’s face turned from pale with fear, to reddish-purple with asphyxiation. His lack of belief that the man stood any sort of chance against him, however, did not prepare him for the sudden sting he felt across his upper stomach.

With one final and desperate swing, the man had aimed lower with his knife, and sufficiently wounded the masked killer with a cut that would help to set him back down on the ground. He gasped and coughed, eager for air as the psychotic man suddenly turned his attention to the deep and jagged laceration on his abdomen. He frantically touched the ripped fabric of his coveralls around the wound, ignoring the blood spilling out of him. _How could this have happened?_

Michael snapped his head back up to the doomed man before him and with newfound rage, grabbed the collar of his shirt, plunging his knife deep into his torso. The man’s eyes went wide as Michael stabbed him over and over again, his stomach becoming a mess of blood and gore. When he finally let go of the man, the prey fell to its knees at the Shape’s feet. Before falling over, Michael sliced his blade across the man’s neck, watching with sadistic pleasure as his head turned with the swipe of his knife, blood flying from the slash before collapsing hard onto the floor.

Then there was silence.

A sudden wave of weakness came over Michael, and he stumbled backwards, hitting a table behind him and quickly pressing against the surface with his hands to steady himself. His head started to spin and he closed his eyes and shook it back and forth, trying to rid himself of the disorientation. The voices started to return, the urge within him growing once more as he gripped the sides of his mask. When he reopened his eyes, he saw spots, his vision blurred, and he grunted with frustration. He pushed himself off the table, wanting to return to his hunting, but as he glanced back down at his injury, he found that all the blood that flowed from it was making it very hard to be able to go back to killing. He didn’t want to go back home, he was still ravenous—in need for more butchering of pests.

But when he remembered you, something in him changed, and he staggered away from his victims’ property back home to you.

Michael reached your back door, ripping it open and stepping inside with heavy legs.

A sound of a door opening and heavy boot steps downstairs tore you from your book and drew you to the noise. Quickly making your way down the stairs, you found Michael, standing hunched over with hands over his abdomen in your kitchen. Your eyes soon landed on the dark red liquid dripping on the floor, and to the blood already caked on the bottom of his boots.

“ _Oh my God,_ ” you breathed.

Your mind snapped back to reality and you rushed to his side, wrapping one arm around his waist and taking an arm from his torso to drape it across your shoulders. You tried to support the large man the best you could, but with each step, his breathing seemed to become heavier and more ragged, and with that he increasingly leaned on you.

You reached your upstairs bathroom with much difficulty, and you were about to collapse to the ground with Michael when you helped him to the floor, leaning him against a wall. Your tiredness went ignored when your attention was turned to the large gash across his upper abdomen. To get a better look at the injury, you began to unzip the top of his coveralls, feeling his eyes on you the whole time. When the top part was down, you were met with his now soaked with blood and sweat black t-shirt. Your shaky fingers hesitantly curled around the bottom, silently asking permission to lift up the clothing.

“I won’t take it all the way off,” you told him, hoping some of the uneasiness he held in his clouded gaze would soften. And thankfully, it did in the slightest, allowing you to continue. Lifting up the shirt, you held it just above the wound, eyeing it with worry and some disgust. The wound was fairly deep, blood continuing to leak from it, and you could tell it was caused by a serrated blade. You had to suppress a gag; Michael had never come to you with anything this bad, and it was safe to say that you were not prepared.

You quickly turned away, not wanting to stare at it much longer with all the scarlet liquid coating the laceration. You busied yourself instead with grabbing medical supplies from your bathroom cabinet, taking a washcloth from a drawer and wetting it under hot water.

The smell of copper was thick in the air, and you could hear occasional small, quick breaths escaping from beneath Michael’s mask. Though he was strong and his body could somehow take injuries that others could not, he was still human.

After washing your hands, you knelt down beside him and pressed a clean cloth to his wound, watching his eyes for any discomfort. He only stared ahead at the wall across from him.

You shifted nervously, worrying the bottom of your lip. “Michael?” you called softly, awaiting a reaction that didn’t come. “Michael,” you tried again. “Michael what happened. Did somebody fight back?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

His head slowly turned to you, his eyes finding yours and staring at you—almost right through you.

You sighed, returning your focus back to his wound. You slowly pulled back the now bloodied cloth and moved to grab the washcloth you had soaked. Careful not to touch the slice, you started to dab at and clean around it, ridding Michael’s skin of excess, dried blood. All the while, you felt dark, hazy eyes studying your movements.

When you finished, you went back to putting pressure on the wound, this time with gauze—trying not to think too hard on the fact that he most likely needed stitches. After a few moments more of stopping the bleeding, you removed the pad and looked over the cut again, staring at it as if you were trying to will it to be more shallow, perhaps even completely gone. _Michael’s body did that, right?_

_Well it wasn’t right now._

You gulped.

“Um... That practice that I’ve been doing here and there with stitching?” you looked up at Michael to find him watching you. “Yeah, well I think that training’s gonna have to come to use now,” you warned him, taking your eyes off of him when you saw his shoulders stiffen.

_No way in hell were you getting a needle near him._

You stood and grabbed the suture kit you bought awhile ago when something in you just _knew_ this would happen. Kneeling back at his side, you began taking out the supplies you’d need, and Michael stared at you, practically challenging you to come near him with that crap. When you felt you were ready, you took in a shaky breath before returning his agitated gaze.

You noticed it immediately.

You slowly reached out and placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “Michael it’s just a needle and thread, nothing is being injected into you or whatever,” you tried to say softly, but that last part only annoyed him more. “Okay—what I meant is that I don’t have anything here to hurt you, only help. I promise.”

Michael eyed you for a minute more before the smallest amount of tension could be seen leaving his shoulders. With one last squeeze on his strong forearm, you picked up your supplies again, and focused on his injury once more.

You’d only ever practiced this on a suture pad you bought on Amazon, watching countless videos over and over again and just hoping nothing would ever come to this. Gently poking fun at the fact that he hadn’t messed up enough for something like this to occur before, you murmured, “Dammit Michael, you were doing so well.”

He almost stood up to leave, done with you after your comment, but didn’t when he felt a small sting near his gash. He looked down at your hands to find you had gone to work.

As carefully as you could, you pulled thread after thread through the separated skin, feeling satisfaction with each knot tied when the laceration would reconnect. You hadn’t expected Michael to be difficult about stitching once you got started; he never flinched once, ever. Not when you’d clean his wounds before, and not now.

Michael just watched you. He took note of each movement you made—how you pulled the thread through, and how you tied it. He studied the way your hands faintly shook when you had to be especially precise, and how your tongue stuck out in the slightest when you were completely focused. And then he noticed that the voices were silent as he sat on the cold bathroom floor with you.

“Ha!!” you exclaimed out of nowhere, pulling away with an exhilarated look on your face. Michael was torn from his thoughts and found your eyes. “I did it!” you said happily.

Michael only sighed, suddenly feeling very tired.

You kept smiling to yourself as you finished, gently pressing some gauze to his stitched wound and wrapping it up with bandaging tape around his upper abdomen. When you stood to start putting things away and wash your hands, Michael quickly sat up, pulling his shirt back down and going to zip his coveralls back up.

“Dude, you can’t wear that shirt or those coveralls—they’re covered in blood and God knows what else,” you told him as you lathered your hands with soap. You caught him sending you a glare before pulling himself up to his feet.

After drying your hands, you cautiously wrapped your arm around his waist, waiting for his arm to move across your shoulders and then helping him to your shared bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed while reluctantly waiting for you to set out a fresh pair of extra coveralls along with a clean tee and boxers. You took his boots out on your back porch to clean them off later while he changed, and you grabbed the dirtiest pile of clothes you have ever handled from him, tossing them unceremoniously into the laundry room to deal with when you worked up the courage to.

When you returned to your bedroom, you found him sitting on the edge of your bed again.

“You’re not thinking about going back out again, are you?” you asked, worried that he would no matter what you’d say to him next. But he surprised you when he made no move to stand and leave, only looking at you. You relaxed and slowly made your way over to your side of the bed, laying back onto the comforting mattress and waiting for the bed to dip beside you. It eventually did, and you knew Michael had been contemplating his decision to join you.

You pulled the warm covers over your cold body and scooted closer to Michael, who laid on top of the sheets, his hands resting on his stomach while he stared up at the ceiling. You slowly placed your hand over his, gently caressing the sides of his large fingers with your thumb.

He kept staring at the ceiling.

You decided to try something different.

“I’m glad you’re okay... Good thing you’re, like, _evolved_ compared to everyone else—I don’t know that anyone could’ve made it with the amount of blood you were losing,” you joked.

Still nothing.

You sighed. He’d had a big day you supposed.

With one last squeeze of his hand, you gave him a quick kiss on his masked cheek before laying your head against his shoulder and closing your eyes.

As you were about to drift off, you felt an arm wrap around your waist, pulling you close to a strong, warm body, and a bare chin rest against your head.

You smiled softly at the feeling of Michael, still holding his hand as you both fell into a soundless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rebel is currently working on the request from xqromanova 👍🏻


	5. On October 19th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Michael’s birthday, and the reader has something special for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Request by SaveTheBestForLast
> 
> \- Let’s talk about how Michael would really only appreciate a gift you give him if it involved food... Unless you somehow manage to tug the slightest bit at his heartstrings—yes, there is a heart down in there somewhere 🖤

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

Michael, still laying in bed when you decided to pounce on him, only shoved you backwards and rolled to his other side facing away from you.

You laughed at his aggression. “Hohooo somebody’s not a morning person,” you remarked, laughing again when he ignored you. “C’mon! I made a really great breakfassstt~,” you tempted the large man out of bed to begin his special day.

He let out a heavy sigh and sat up, sending a quick glare your way before getting out of bed and heading downstairs. “You win this round, (y/n),” you muttered to yourself with a grin.

Downstairs you had prepared a rather large breakfast, knowing full well Michael could eat a whole horse if he wanted. Looking at the food before him, he started to feel a little glad that he got out of bed early; there were large stacks of pancakes, a huge bowl of fruit, a plate full of bacon, and he could smell something else being baked—something sweet.

He felt your small arms wrap around his waist from behind. “Has this met your expectations, Michael?” you asked, smiling when he quickly grabbed a plate and started shoveling food onto it.

You released your hug on him and grabbed a plate yourself before Michael could eat everything.

-

Michael ate about five servings worth of food before you stopped him from spoiling his appetite for later. He shot you a glare in response, then stood up and headed for the back door.

“Wait!” you called, quickly getting up to stop him from leaving. “You can’t go now! I have more things for you!”

He seemed to inwardly roll his eyes at you before turning around and looking at you expectantly.

“Come over here,” you said, gesturing to the living room. He reluctantly followed you into the living room, still not quite wanting to sit down. “Be right back,” you told him, jogging upstairs to go grab his gifts.

You came back down with a large gift bag and a big cardboard box tucked under your arm, a bow carelessly thrown on the top. You walked up to Michael and handed him the bag first, sitting down and smiling up at him.

He did not seem too happy as he at last took his seat and began sifting through the bag. Then he pulled out a black t-shirt and long sleeved shirt. He held up the t-shirt, ignoring the long sleeved tee, and looked at you, waiting for an explanation; he already had a shirt, why did you get him more?

“It’s a shirt,” you pointed out happily.

Michael gave you a look. _No shit._

“Michael you can’t just have one shirt,” you told him. “And the long sleeved one is for the colder months. Plus, they’re Under Armour so they’ll be nice for your... physical activities,” you finished.

Michael set the t-shirt down, ready to move on with his life. Returning back to the bag, he pulled out 3 tank tops. Looking over each one—one white, one black, and another black one but more sporty.

He looked at you once more for his requirement of your reasoning.

“I figured your coveralls could get pretty hot, and thought tanks might be better for like summertime or whatever,” you rambled. Michael just stared at you. “What! It’ll be nice to wear more breathable things, even if it’s just the sleeves missing,” you retorted, getting quieter as you finished your explanation.

“Just keep going,” you said, happy to move on yourself.

Michael only sighed before reaching into the bag again. His hand landed on something soft, so he pulled it out, coming face to face with dark gray pj bottoms. He didn’t even want to look at the bunch of boxers that the pajamas revealed.

He could’ve stabbed you.

“Okay. You don’t wear anything but those stupid coveralls, so I decided to get you some more clothing items to ‘spice up’ your wardrobe,” you reasoned, trying to not sound as nervous as you were.

And Michael actually shook his head at you.

“Alright, fine!” you threw your hands up in the air before getting up and bending over to pick up your second gift to him. You plopped the big cardboard box onto his lap. “Enjoy.”

You turned and walked away from Michael, hearing the box being ripped open behind you, and turning back around once you were a good distance away from him to see his reaction.

Michael looked down at the piles of chocolate and candy in the box before him. _Now you’re talkin’._

He surfed through the sweets, seemingly content with each one, and when he reached the bottom and found some steel rod which he deduced to be some sharpener... _a knife sharpener?_... he looked back up at you. _Really?_

You threw your hands back up dramatically and walked out of the room with a heavy sigh.

Michael just shook his head again. _Jesus._

-

The night was still young when Michael finished his walk in the darkness and, feeling hungry, decided to return home. When he entered through the back door, he found a nicely iced cake with chocolate icing waiting for him in the center of the table. He tilted his head as he studied it before walking over to it. In front of it sat a tiny paper card, which he picked up and read the little note on it.

_It’s chocolate cake—in case the icing wasn’t obvious enough. Love you._  
_\- (y/n)_

Michael’s eyes softened. He guessed he would leave you a slice as a thanks; he really did like chocolate cake.

-

Michael laid in bed for awhile before starting to wonder where you were. He’d finished the cake about an hour ago, leaving one slice for you, and figured he’d head to bed—all the eating he’d done today having made him a bit tired. He glanced at the clock beside him, reading “1:07 AM”.

“Hey,” your soft voice tore him from his thoughts and he looked over at you. “Sorry, I was tidying up some stuff in my office,” you said, gesturing to the hallway outside the doorway as you crawled into bed.

“I saw you got busy on that cake,” you commented, positioning yourself with your legs crossed at Michael’s side. “Thanks for saving one for me.”

He sat up, his gaze never leaving you.

“As if this day hasn’t been filled with enough gifts already, I actually have one more thing for you,” you informed him quietly, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your nightshirt.

He tilted his head at you, tired of this whole presents thing, but still curious about what you still could possibly have for him.

You reached into the pocket of your pj bottoms and pulled out a small box. It was nothing special, but you felt what it contained was special.

He took it. Large hands found the lid of the box, and you bit your lower lip, inwardly trying to quell the slight anxiety growing in the pit of your stomach.

Michael stared down at what the small container held, not really sure what it was and why. He pulled out the chain, holding up some kind of necklace.

“It’s a um—a dog tag necklace, so it’s not really like feminine or whatever,” you explained, your face growing hot.

Michael kept staring at it.

“It’s got our uh initials engraved on the—the back of it and the date we first were together,” you told him, holding the dog tag with the side of the writing towards him.

_~MM + (y/f/i)(y/l/i)~_  
_-•11-20-1979•-_

He looked at the writing for a long time while you tried to gather your racing thoughts in order to talk to him properly.

You took in a shaky deep breath.

“I got this because I was thinking about how you go out a lot and though I don’t know exactly what you’re doing, I have a pretty damn good idea... and it worries me.”

Michael was looking at you, and he tilted his head again.

“I get really scared of losing you sometimes, Michael, and that’s the truth. I know you’re strong and very smart—you know how to take care of yourself, but that doesn’t make me feel better sometimes when I really can’t know. So I just wanted to remind you... that I love you... even when you’re far away doing God knows what,” you chuckled, looking away from his beautiful dark eyes. “And just that I’m still here, waiting for you to get back,” you finished, looking back into his eyes to find your gaze being blurred by tears.

Michael looked at you for a few long moments before returning his gaze to the dog tag. The silence became unbearable as you sat and waited for him to react to anything in any way. He seemed to be calculating something in his brain, thinking deeply about stuff you could only guess at; _does he like it? Probably not. Is he gonna kill me for admitting my feelings towards him and what he does? Probably. That’s what he’s thinking about. He’s thinking about how to kill me. Wouldn’t be surprised if he used the chain itself to choke the life out of me in some mocking way—_

Michael set the dog tag necklace down, his eyes still staring off into space towards where the tag had been in front of his face. You swallowed hard.

“Um, I can get rid of it if you don’t want it... or maybe I can wear it, I don’t care,” you murmured, and suddenly the bedding beneath you seemed very, very interesting.

A quick movement caused you to look back up, however, to find that Michael had snapped his head to you, and you couldn’t quite read the expression in his eyes.

You held your breath, waiting for a sign of something within him—anything.

And Michael wasn’t sure what he was feeling either. There was something about your words to him that struck something deep down inside him, and he had no idea what or why. And your necklace to him seemed to symbolize those very words you spoke—perfectly. He looked down at it again, absently tracing his thumb over the letters, your explanation about why you got it replaying over and over in his mind. It was surprising to learn just how much he apparently meant to you. And when he found your eyes again, he felt genuine wonder. _What did he do to make you feel this way?_

You finally realized that there was no anger in his eyes, no irritation, no ‘k I’mma choke you with this now’. Slight relief washed over you and the heat left your cheeks as you found there was more warmth in those black orbs than anything. A warmth you could hardly say you’ve ever seen before.

You smiled before wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. After a couple seconds, you felt hesitant arms return the hug, slowly getting tighter before Michael pulled you across his lap, holding you closer to him.

-

For a few days after you’d given him the dog tag necklace for his birthday, it had been sitting on his nightstand next to his side of the bed. You didn’t mind; it was really only meant to be a physical representation of all that you told him that night, and you hadn’t expected him to wear it if he didn’t want to, tucked underneath his coveralls and shirt. But there was one evening where, as you climbed into your bed, you glanced over at his nightstand to find that the necklace was gone.

And you smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I hope you liked this! It was really fun to write!


	6. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader looks up Michael to find out more about him, and he isn’t so happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Rebel  
> Request by xqromanova 
> 
> \- So sorry for the delay by the way. This was actually very interesting and fun to write, so thank you for the request! I loved writing Michael’s reaction to this new feeling, and I hope you like it too.

Michael Myers is a mystery to you. He was a mystery to you when you met about six months ago. It felt like you knew him so well from the amount of time that he’s—almost constantly—been around you; but at the same time you knew so little about him. Knowing Michael wasn’t going to exactly _tell_ you everything about him, you would have to ask questions. But you weren’t sure exactly what to ask. You decided that a good way to find out more about Michael was to look into his past so you could ask the right questions.

The bright white light of your laptop screen illuminated your dark room as you sat on your bed, right after Michael took his leave for his nightly hunt. The time on your screen read 12:38am. Since you were not sure where to start, you simply typed _Michael Myers._

A _lot_ of results came up.

You clicked on the first result, which was a Wikipedia article on him. It was pretty detailed and discussed a lot about Michael being an entity of pure evil. A dull ache grew in the pit of your stomach as you read a paragraph from the Wiki:

_“I met him, fifteen years ago; I was told there was nothing left; No reason, no conscience, no understanding; and even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, of good or evil, right or wrong. I met this 6-year-old child, with this blank, pale, emotionless face, and the blackest eyes... the devil's eyes. I spent eight years trying to reach him, and then another seven trying to keep him locked up because I realized that what was living behind that boy's eyes was purely and simply… evil.”_

Scrolling down to find a citation, or even a name from which that quote came from, you landed on the name of Dr. Samuel Loomis. As you searched further into the article, you came to realize that the man that was quoted—Dr. Loomis—was Michael’s former psychiatric doctor. If he could even be called a doctor; rather a cruel man with an obsessed fantasy. Either way, you looked more specifically into Dr. Loomis and where he had his practice.

 _Smith’s Grove Sanitarium._ The website you were on had a highlighted link that sent you to their website. Now you were granted with the information of the hospital Michael was forced into. The sanitarium’s website even had a separate link for Michael, as if he was an animal in a zoo to gawk at. It seemed like this hospital took pride in having Michael in their possession, and in their own words, “the infamous serial killer, Michael Audrey Myers, inhabited one of our rooms for fifteen years”. How disgusting.

From reading certain entries and articles, it was obvious to you that Michael was looked at and treated like a separate species—something to pick and prod at like an eighth grade science project.

_At a young age, Michael Myers was taken to Smith’s Grove Sanitarium after the brutal murder of his older sister Judith Myers._

You had only briefly known about Michael killing his sister, and even then you didn’t even really know her name. This thought intrigued you; how you hadn’t known in depth of the death of his sister, or even the deaths of countless other strangers that you hadn’t known of. Not that you necessarily cared for their lives—insensitive as it may be—but the acts of Michael’s killing is interesting to you. Interesting not because you view him as a specimen or a living experiment, like some—interesting in the way that which you care for him.

As you searched deeper in depth into the many alleged victims by the hands of Michael Myers, you quickly found that many of them are just allegations and aren’t really necessarily proven to be done by him. It would make sense to assume that the many sporadic and random deaths would be done by a serial killer on the loose, but judging by the accounts of other people’s opinions on him, if he killed a fly in the sanitarium room, he would practically be prosecuted. Either way, he was quick and effective with his kills, enough so that there was hardly a trace of him.

“ _Damn,_ ” you thought towards the fact that he could do something like that so effortlessly, “ _that’s pretty hot._ ” Smiling and shaking your head, you continued your research.

Michael was awarded with 4 confirmed victims—5 including his sister—until he was shot 6 times and then “disappeared”. From there, any deaths in Haddonfield, Illinois were credited to the suspicion that Michael “had returned”. So, as you thought over how many kills your beloved serial killer boyfriend actually had... God only knows how many more there are what with his nightly killing sprees.

His weapons varied, but others concluded—mainly Dr. Loomis—that his weapon of choice was a kitchen knife. You didn’t have to read that to realize that was his favored blade. The moment you two met, one of his first actions was holding a knife to your throat. Besides the kitchen knife, one of the other many lethal weapons he used was his hands—which you were becoming pretty familiar with.

You felt awful reading all of the hateful words that were used to wrongfully compose Michael. He isn’t an evil or sickening being; he’s a tormented man who needs understanding and perhaps comfort—even if he doesn’t care or seem to realize it. With all of the time you’ve spent with him, you have actually learned a lot about him. Not just the facts and statistics that everyone else sees, but you see _Michael._ Before, you thought that you had hardly known him, but in this short time you’ve been with him so far, you have actually learned more about him than anyone has in fifteen or more years—which made you come to another realization.

You were falling in love with him.

You released a breath you didn’t notice you were holding at that realization. It was like a sigh of relief for yourself to finally come to your senses and see what you felt for Michael. You were also happy to note that you felt this way for the right reasons, and not the wrong ones.

Just as you were about to look more into Michael, you heard the front door knob turning and the door creak open. For some reason, panic shot through you like you were going to be caught looking at something inappropriate. Glancing at the time, you saw that the clock read 3:57am. Cursing yourself for letting the time slip by so fast, you shut your laptop to set it on the nightstand next to your bed, and went under the covers to pretend to be asleep.

Suddenly, you felt the bed dip behind you and realized that you must have fallen asleep for awhile while trying to await Michael’s return. You relaxed next to him while listening to his steady breathing, and were slowly lulled back to sleep.

><><><

The next morning, you decided to wake Michael up with breakfast. Another thing you realized while living with him is that he loves to eat. This man could eat an entire meal for three people and still have room for dessert. You think that Michael’s favorite meal of the day is breakfast, but honestly, every meal of the day probably is. The stairs in the other room squeaked as someone walked down them from upstairs.

“Oh Michael!~” you cooed to him, “I made you breakfast!”

His response to you was his appearance in the doorway of the kitchen, looking down at you and then looking over at the meal that awaited him on the table. You chuckled to yourself as you looked at his blank white mask, somehow portraying his longing to devour his breakfast. Michael briskly walked over to the table and sat down. If Michael smiled—as horrifying as that would probably be—he most likely would.

You brought over a plate for yourself to the table with eggs and toast. The majority of the morning you had been debating over how you should talk to Michael about what you researched last night. You weren’t sure how to approach it, so you decided it would be best to have the conversation after breakfast.

After you both finished your meals—somehow Michael had finished first even though he had more food—you cleaned up the plates and Michael stood up to head towards the living room.

“Hey Michael?” You called to him.

Michael stopped and turned his head towards you, listening for what you had to say.

“I wanna ask you something.”

Michael fully turned to you, his posture conveying he was uninterested but still willing to listen.

Your nerves were shot. You felt like by researching these things about him, and talking to him about it was in some way invading his personal space and trust. But your intentions were good, you were just worried he wouldn’t see that.

“I was uh, wondering...” you trailed off.

Michael looked slightly impatient.

“I wanted to like talk to you about things in Haddonfield.” You shifted your weight and took in a sharp inhale. You looked to Michael’s hand and saw that he clenched and unclenched his fist—a reoccurring habit of his lately. You weren’t sure if this was a warning sign or not, but either way you felt that you had to push forward.

_Screw it._

“I was doing some research, uh, kind of about you because I was a little interested and basically I wanted to talk to you about Dr. Loomis,” you blurted out, then added quickly, “more specifically Smith’s Grove Sanitarium.”

Before you could even hardly blink, Michael jumped on you and grabbed you by your upper arms, shoving you against the kitchen counter. Your lower back and hips immediately ached from the hard contact, and your arms almost felt like rope burn from the tight grip of Michael’s hands. The wind was knocked out of you for a brief moment, and just as you breathed in, Michael put his hand on your throat and squeezed fairly hard. You were scared shitless, but you had a feeling that he would react this way.

Your hands flew to his forearms as he lifted you by your throat, and you started to feel your feet lift off of the ground. Instinctively, your hands went from his arms to the countertop. As you gripped the countertop and attempted to hoist yourself onto it so you could have some leeway, Michael ripped you from the counter by grabbing one of your arms, also with your neck still in his other hand. You felt your face and temples begin to tingle and your vision became spotty from the lack of oxygen. That one question could be the end of you, but you didn’t want to let that happen. Michael shoved you onto the front of the fridge causing your head to lash back and your ribs to hit the fridge’s handle. Wheezing out the last of your breath, you did the only thing you could think to do.

With your free hand, you reached up to place your hand on the cheek of Michael’s mask, and with the only strength left you could muster, you mouthed the words, “ _I’m sorry._ ”

Michael’s bone-crushing strength faltered for one second as he examined you, seemingly weighing his options. Tilting your neck up high to reach his gaze, you caught something shift slightly in his eyes.

With a grunt, Michael released you. You dropped forcefully to the floor, sliding down the face of the fridge, and when you inhaled, your lungs felt like fire and your throat burned. While in a coughing fit, you looked up at Michael who was staring down at you with clenched fists.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Michael” you croaked out, “I only wanted to know your perspective. I guess just know how you felt, so I could know what they put you through.” An involuntary tear fell down your cheek as you attempted to stand, your body weak and numb. “I only had good intentions, I’m sorry.”

Michael looked down at you and his fists unclenched. Reaching up with your hand, you grabbed the refrigerator handle and pulled yourself up. Trying to further your apology, you reached for his hand, but he pulled away.

Michael couldn’t look you in the eye, let alone have you touch him; a weird and sickly feeling brewed in his stomach, and made his chest feel heavy. He had no idea what the feeling was, but either way he wasn’t used to it and it did not feel good. At all.

He began to breathe heavily and clench his fists over and over as if it were a nervous tick, trying to make sense of what came over him. A strangled grunt escaped his lips and suddenly his hands flew to the sides of his head. His hands were gripping at his mask and holding his head, and his body was anxiously shifting on each foot. It looked like he was trying to get out of his body—out of his head. His hands would occasionally slip off of his head as he gripped it, and he shook his head back and forth as he did so.

“Michael,” you said softly and cautiously, “what’s wrong?”

When you reached out for him again, he pulled away and took one step back from you. Just then you may have realized what was wrong. _Did he feel guilty for hurting me?_

He didn’t understand what he was feeling, and it made him even more flustered and upset. The result of him tormenting one of his victims is usually nothing. No remorse, no sadness, or fear. Nothing. But now, after being rough with (y/n), he felt something unexplainable that only made him angry.

Michael’s confusion quickly turned to a low-burning hatred; the burning of a cool blue flame on a gas stove—not exactly a big raging flame, but still hot. He quickly stormed away from you, and towards the door to your front porch.

Not wanting him to get away from you, you rushed up to him and jumped in front of him before he reached the door. You placed both of your hands on his chest, feeling him tense underneath them, and drew in quick rapid breaths to regain yourself.

“I forgive you,” you looked up at him, “it’s not your fault.”

Words Michael has never heard in his entire life were spoken to him. His whole life he has been ridiculed and hated, but for once he was told that it wasn’t his fault and that he was forgiven. Another first for him, but a good one.

You knew that Michael needed to hear that from you in order to feel better, or at the very least calm down. Another thing you knew was that you didn’t say those words just because you wanted to settle him, but because you really meant them. None of it was his fault, nor was it yours. He’s never had someone tell him that it’s okay, or tell him that who he is, is not his fault. But maybe that’s what he needs—someone to tell him that it’s all okay.

Michael slowly felt the weight lift off of him with your words. Your words struck something deep within him. He let his body become less tense and didn’t move away from your touch.

Michael leaned down to you and slowly wrapped his arms around you. You could tell he was unsure, but you wrapped your arms around his waist and let your head rest against him. His breathing had slowed and he no longer was in an agitated state, which put you at ease.

“I love you,” you smiled. You knew Michael wasn’t going to say it back, but it was good enough for just you to say it out loud.

Unexpectedly, Michael placed his hand on your head and very slowly stroked your hair. You didn’t expect a response at all, and just that little action of reassurance made you feel amazing.


	7. Night Shift Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader has to work the night shift and Michael decides to pay you a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Request by SaveTheBestForLast
> 
> \- I apologize for the delay! I hope you enjoy this, it was very entertaining to write!

Your eyelids felt heavy as you stared down at your phone, waiting in silence for _somebody_ to walk through the entrance to the gas station you were working at, and had been for the past seven hours. You hadn’t ever worked the night shift before, but you were in need of the money, and you thought there might be an aspect of peace to it; sitting alone in a seemingly empty place, left with just your phone and some coffee.

The sound of a bell tore your attention from your phone and you looked up to find a lady had just entered the store.

“Hi!”

“Hi, how are you?” you greeted as she walked past your place behind the front desk and headed towards the snack section.

“I’m doing fine. Tired! But fine,” she laughed.

“Ah, long drive?”

“Yup. Doesn’t help that I’ve got 3 teens in the car with me,” she sighed.

“I can imagine not!” you joked back, your eyes traveling to the darkness outside. They froze on a silhouetted figure, an eerie glow from the gas station’s lights settling upon its broad shoulders and strangely white face.

You stared at the shape for awhile until the woman’s voice cut through the heavy atmosphere settling around you. “We’re on our way to Florida. Opted to drive overnight because we have a whole day planned for tomorrow, but my husband and I are starting to regret that decision.”

You laughed as you started ringing up her items, only half listening as your mind still raced with thoughts about the figure standing outside.

When you finished and the lady paid, you put on your I’m-happy-to-be-here smile and said, “Have a great rest of your drive!”

“Thanks! You have a nice morning,” she replied, and left.

As you watched her walk back to her car, you took the time to scan the outside surroundings, looking for the dark figure, and finding none. Frowning, you stood up and made your way to the back entrance of the convenience store. Slowly opening the heavy door, you peered your head out, glancing left and right, squinting in the darkness before you. You didn’t realize how shallow you were breathing and how hard your heart was pounding; you never had been one for being left alone at night. _Why did you take this job again?_

When you were satisfied that there was no one outside, you stepped back into the store and right into something solid. You yelped, quickly whipping around to find the large figure from before looming over you.

“Michael?!” you yelled in surprise.

He tilted his head at your reaction, watching you.

“What are you doing here??” you asked, now a little pissed.

Just then, you heard the recognizable ring of the bell to the front entrance door, and knew someone had come in. Then you heard the familiar voice of your boss call out your name.

“ _Shit!!_ ” you exclaimed in a whisper. “Uh, back here!” you called out.

“(y/n)? What are you doing?” your employer asked.

“Um—I was restocking some shelves so I was just leaving the storage room!” you answered, turning back to Michael with intense anxiety in your glare. “ _You can’t be here!!_ ” you hissed.

“Oh alright, I just came by to check up on you since it’s your first night working here,” your boss told you, and you noted with dread that his voice was getting closer to you as he spoke.

Quickly turning your attention back to Michael who had remained unfazed, simply staring down at you expectantly like he was waiting for you to give him the usual greeting you would—you started trying to push him backwards into the storage room, away from your approaching boss.

“Uh, sounds good!” you called back, trying to hide the fact that you were panicked—I mean your serial killer boyfriend who’s been wanted by the police for years is standing in front of you right now, you had every right to be panicked. Your attempts at trying to move the masked man however proved to be very hard, you guessed it was probably because he was like over 200 lbs. of pure muscle. “ _Michael, come on, please!_ ” you whispered, begging him to allow your shoving to actually have an effect. And when it got slightly easier to move him, you knew he’d somewhat relented, and you were successfully able to get him inside the storage room. You slammed the door shut right as your boss turned the corner—

“Hey!”

“Hi Mr. Harris!” you turned to him and gave him a huge smile—one that you hoped didn’t look like you were hiding something, because it felt like it looked exactly like that. Sure, you _were_ hiding the Shape of Haddonfield, Illinois in the storage room of a convenience store, but your boss didn’t need to know that.

“I was actually just about to head back there,” Mr. Harris said, and you missed his explanation due to the intense alarm you felt as he walked past you towards the dreaded room you hid away _The_ Michael Myers in.

_Great. Of course. Of course he needs to be in there, of course._

You bit your tongue to stop yourself from saying something stupid like “No you can’t go in there or you’ll get stabbed!” You dug your nails into your palm while you watched with wide eyes as your boss opened up the storage room door, just waiting to see... _nobody?_

Mr. Harris started walking around, telling you about “business today” or something—you weren’t really listening, instead wondering where the hell Michael went. You realized you shouldn’t be all that surprised; he did, after all, have a talent for disappearing acts.

“Alright, well, I’m glad to see you’re still awake!” Mr. Harris laughed as he left the storage room, closing the door behind him and heading back towards the entrance.

You followed. “Haha, yeah I’ve always been a night owl I guess,” you lied with a laugh; you could hardly make it pass midnight if you weren’t amped up on caffeine, and it wasn’t like you could tell your employer you were only doing this for the money since you were broke from buying so much medical supplies and food seeing as you were living with The Shape.

Your boss laughed. “Well the guy coming for the next shift should be here in an hour or so,” he let you know as he reached the front door.

“Sounds good,” you replied.

Wishing you good night, you returned it and then were engulfed once more in the now creepy silence of the gas station store. Letting out a shaky breath, you turned around, coming face to face with Michael again.

“What the hell man?!” you yelled.

Michael kept staring at you.

“That was too close—you realize you’re not only putting my ass in jeopardy by being here, but yours too!”

Michael inwardly rolled his eyes; he wasn’t an idiot. He knew how to handle things when he was away from his home. Hell, he wouldn’t leave his house in the first place if he didn’t know how to handle being in public.

You walked past him and back to your spot behind the register, still rambling on about how it was dangerous for him to be here and how you didn’t want to deal with any dead bodies. Michael wasn’t listening, just watching you, slightly amused.

When you finished your rant, you looked up at him and waited for his response, which you hoped would be him turning and leaving. And he did turn and walk away... towards the snacks.

You groaned and sank back into your chair, giving up as you watched him with irritation while he slowly walked down the aisle, browsing for food. He returned to you with a large bag of Combos and two Twinkies, placing them on the counter before you. You raised your eyes up to his, finding him staring down at you and waiting for you to do something.

You decided to humor him. “Is that all?” you asked flatly, your voice deep and tired.

He seemed to consider this for a moment before turning and heading back down the snack aisle, out of your sight. You heard the crinkling of plastic bags and afterwards, the refrigerator doors at the back of the store opening and closing. You couldn’t help but snort when you heard the sound of multiple things falling to the floor and a grunt following shortly after.

Then you heard footsteps coming back towards you and Michael stepped out from behind an aisle with an armful of goodies, a pint of ice cream in one hand and a coke in the other. You perked your head up with raised eyebrows, forcing yourself not to smile as Michael set down all his crap, standing back up to his full height and waiting for you to proceed.

“You do realize you have to pay for all that,” you told him seriously.

Michael let out a frustrated grunt in response.

He clearly was not able to pay.

The sound of a sudden car door slam put you on high alert as you looked out the window to see a man talking to someone on the phone, making his way towards the store. “ _Oh fuck,_ ” you breathed, abruptly standing and turning back to Michael, who was staring at the man. “Michael you cannot be here. You either leave or take off your mask,” you told him sternly.

Michael growled at that. _Like hell was he gonna take off his mask._

“ _Then leave!_ ” you hissed at him, looking back at the man who thankfully was still too busy talking on the phone—his head down—to notice the infamous murderer standing at the register like he was about to buy a whole bunch of snacks for the road. 

_Hey, man’s gotta eat._

You watched with horror as the man reached for the door, but when you glanced over to where Michael had been, he was no longer there.

_Right. He does that._

The man opened up the door and gave you a small nod in acknowledgement, which you returned, still visibly anxious. But he was too focused on his call to notice as he continued walking to the refrigerators in the back.

You remained frozen, mouth slightly open as the panic that had washed over you slowly dissipated.

_Michael’s gone, it’s fine. Everything’s fine._

When the man’s voice grew louder, you were torn from your thoughts as you saw him approaching the counter. You quickly swiped all the crap Michael had laid out onto the floor behind the desk, looking back up with a smile as the man began to set down his things.

“Look I’m almost home, I’ll talk to you then,” the man finished before hanging up the phone. He returned your smile and you started ringing up his items.

“$6.37,” you told him and he pulled out his wallet, grabbing cash and handing it to you.

“Keep the change. Looks like it’s already been a long night,” he said, giving you another sympathetic smile that reached his eyes.

You were taken aback at first, then you realized you probably had the biggest bags under your eyes, and it didn’t help that he walked in right at yet another panicked situation you found yourself in with The Shape. You must’ve looked like a mess.

You laughed, slightly embarrassed, before thanking him and telling him to have a nice night, which he reciprocated before exiting the small store.

You sighed and turned your head towards the source of where the eyes you felt on you were. Michael stood behind the aisle farthest from you, watching you intently. It was in this moment that you realized just how tired you were. _Jesus, you really weren’t cut out for this, were you?_

“Michael, why are you here?” you asked him for what felt like the twelfth time that evening, this time a little softer.

He only began to walk towards you, keeping his eyes on you the whole time. He reached the counter, stepping behind it and right next to you. You had to crane your neck to look up at him. His eyes weren’t the dark, empty pits they always were—they seemed gentle, almost.

Then you realized this would be your first night away from Michael. Before you had worked normally during the day, and it took a long time for Michael to allow you to go to your job without him following you around, watching. He’d let you go to work knowing you would return around dinnertime, ready to make dinner for the both of you before getting ready for bed. At night he’d lay stiffly next to you, waiting for you to fall asleep, and when you did, he’d wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close to him. It was... comforting, knowing you were there with _him_ , in _his_ arms, _his_ (y/n).

You let out another sigh, and Michael tilted his head. You gave him a small smile. “I’m sorry that I took this job, I admit it is weird not being home with you at this ungodly hour,” you chuckled, “... but I— _we_ need the money,” you told him, your face turning serious as you met his eyes again.

Michael tilted his head the other way.

You suddenly perked up, giving Michael a smirk as you brought your fingers to the center of his chest. “But I can make it up to you,” you cooed as you slowly walked your pointer and middle finger up his chest and over his shoulder.

Michael’s head straightened.

You rested your hand on the crook of his neck, giving it a gentle squeeze and holding back a laugh when it felt like squeezing a rock.

You let go of Michael and turned to pick up your phone, looking at the time displayed on the lock screen. “Shift’s almost up,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Wow... that’s the first all-nighter I’ve pulled,” you laughed.

Michael tilted his head again.

You heard the sound of a car door shut again and when you looked out to see if it was the person working the next shift, you were right.

“Ugh _finally!_ ” you groaned dramatically, ready to leave. It really was out of desperation that you took the job; not only did you suck at staying up too late at night, but you also realized that it was pretty hard not being around Michael when you normally would’ve been.

You gave Michael another tired smile before grabbing his hand. “C’mon, let’s go home.”


	8. An Urge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael walks in on reader self harming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Request by dry_tadpole  
> Warning: Depictions of self harm throughout
> 
> \- Thanks for the opportunity to write this—I’m so glad to have finally gotten it written out! I love writing how Michael can be apart of situations that DON’T involve him trying to kill you, but instead in a way that’s helpful, and simply because he cares in a way he himself might not even understand, and because he doesn’t realize the impact he can have on that someone who’s hurting and needs somebody. So basically, Michael’s super amazing to write and I hope you like this story!

You couldn’t do it anymore.

You couldn’t hold back.

You stormed into your room, breathing heavily and not knowing what to do with your arms, your hands. You could feel charged up energy coursing through your veins and you couldn’t think straight. Nothing could get your mind off of anything, and you wanted out.

Out, out, out.

You frantically looked around your room, for something, _anything_. You had done so well to not hurt yourself—working so hard to fight the urges when things got tough and you couldn’t handle the overwhelming sensations anxiety and depression threw your way. You’d done the ice, you’d done the rubber band against your wrist, but now, you didn’t have the patience for that.

You needed the sting, and you needed it now.

You rushed around your room, only focusing on one thing and one thing only: physical pain. You stopped when you spotted a pin button sitting on your dresser. How it got there, you didn’t know. How you even got it, you didn’t care—but it was there, and it would be sharp.

You snatched it and with shaky hands, unhinged the pin on the back from the hook, pulling the small needle outwards. Without wasting any time, you lifted up your shirt, and started quickly swiping the tip of the pin across your stomach. You relented after you no doubt had completely covered your skin with cuts reaching across your whole stomach. Pulling away, you waited a second before you were hit with a wave of fierce stinging, causing you to whimper, falling to your knees. You cried out at how good it felt—the intensity taking your mind off of everything, and you looked down to see what you had done. Raised pink lines began to form over your stomach, some here and there having broken skin, revealing the tiniest amount of blood—not enough to actually bleed, but enough to leave a slight scab.

You couldn’t stop yourself there. Everything you had worked on having left your brain, your goal to not ever hurt yourself ever again forgotten.

You needed this. You had been needing it for so long.

You just were finally pushed over the edge.

You pushed yourself against the nearest wall and lifted up the sleeve of your shirt, exposing the side of your shoulder. You continued the swiping motion across that area too, numb to the tears falling down your cheeks and the fresh stings manifesting with each slice. You pulled away again when you realized you couldn’t cover anymore of your now completely slashed upper bicep by wearing a short sleeved shirt. Before pulling your sleeve back down, you got a good look at what you had done to yet another part of your body. This time, you were actually bleeding, small beads of scarlet liquid forming over a few cuts.

“ _Shit_ ,” you breathed. You hadn’t seen your skin like that in a long time. And you cursed at yourself for having broken the vow you made to yourself, and nobody else. The promise to work for love, forgiveness, and acceptance towards yourself.

And now you’ve failed. You didn’t even care. You needed more. _God_ you still needed more.

Letting out a growl of frustration, you pulled down your pants enough to reveal the untouched skin of your thigh. Your vision blurred with tears as you looked down at what would be your next canvas as the overwhelming thoughts began to creep into your mind. Taking a deep and shaky breath, you channeled all those thoughts into the needle that then pierced your flesh. Your body acted on autopilot, the repetitive motion so familiar to you—so simple that you didn’t need to pay attention to what you were doing. And as you let go of each thought that went with each slice, the tiny blade pushed deeper, and deeper, each sting more deliciously intense than the last.

It was shamefully freeing, in a way you couldn’t explain. Where your sole focus was on this pain, this physical satisfaction you had been keeping yourself away from for so long. So simple yet so dangerous—successfully bringing you out of your mind and into a grounding, yet horribly addictive habit and outlet. One that made you so out of it and numb afterwards from every thought and memory that hurt you so much practically being torn from your mind and into each self-inflicted wound. One that made you hide, covering yourself in any way possible so nobody would see, your efforts of protection only increasing the more you left these marks on your skin. One that made you completely unaware of the shape that walked down the hall towards your room with heavy footsteps and entered your room to find you in the very act of succumbing to such an urge.

Michael froze, seeing you sitting against a wall with one leg to your chest, the other sprawled out. Your hand holding a small object which you dragged across the top of your thigh over and over. Your breathing heavy and your eyes shut tight as tears leaked from them. Your lips moving without making any sound.

Michael slowly made his way over to you, watching you intently, unsure of what you were doing and why. He knelt down in front of you, and he grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the little object to stop its steady and quick movement. It was then that you jumped, your head snapping up and your wide, fearful and pained eyes finding Michael’s.

He could tell you stopped breathing at the sight of him, and he remained confused.

He tilted his head.

“I—“ you wanted to say something but you had no idea what. You usually had some sort of an excuse when your sleeve would lift up and someone’s wandering eyes caught sight of the cuts. But obviously, “it was my cat” wasn’t going to work in this situation—which was one you’ve never actually been in before.

Instead your mind went blank and all was silent save for the distant panic signals going off rapidly in your brain.

But Michael didn’t grab you roughly or shake his head at you in disapproval, and his eyes never changed to anger. They just remained curious.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and Michael moved his gaze down to your thigh. He absently pushed your armed hand aside to get a better look at all the slashes going down your skin. Some bled, some were just a swollen, deep pink. He bent over further to get a closer look and you sat, still frozen and having no idea what to do or how to respond.

Michael was just the same; he vaguely recognized these lines—he’s seen stuff like this before on other patients’ arms while in Smith’s Grove, but he never knew what they were or what they meant. He took your wrist again and turned it to look over your arms, looking for what he’d see in the sanitarium, and he caught a glimpse of something on your bicep. Ignoring your flinch in response to him reaching for that sleeve, he lifted it up to expose more of the same lines. He bent over you to look closely at these, too.

You just sat still, your hand gripping the pin button you’d made into a weapon of self harm, and your heart pounding in your chest. Your breathing was shallow as you watched Michael for any change in attitude. But none came, and you grew patient with him as he looked over your cuts, realizing he probably hadn’t ever been exposed to something like this—at least in this way.

You finally let out a normal breath, suddenly feeling very tired; the weight you felt from the overwhelming thoughts before now just a dull numbness. Cautiously, you lifted your free hand to the hem of your shirt, stretching out your other leg too to show Michael what else you had done.

Michael leaned forward to look at the new lines you showed him, except these ones weren’t bleeding. He cocked his head to the other side as he bent over once more to look at these ones. He rested an unexpectedly warm hand on your side, and your skin jumped at the contact. Michael paid no mind, gently swiping the rough pad of his thumb over the end of one of the raised slashes.

Finding your voice, you told him, “Sometimes when people need an outlet for something—whether it be a way to deal with problems, feelings and emotions, or just life in general—they find the wrong outlets. This is one of them.” You spoke softly, your voice slightly raspy.

Michael continued to look at all your lines.

“It helps me to feel better; it’s like a physical manifestation of the intense emotions that I feel, and the pain helps to get it out of my mind, and the sting grounds me. It’s satisfying, really. Numbing. It helps me let go of things. It gets the frustration, anger, sadness all out, whether it’s towards myself or others. It feels so good. And it’s something I should not be doing,” you finished.

Michael lifted his eyes to yours. In them you still found no irritation or disappointment, though you felt disappointment in yourself. But in yours Michael found the slight shift in mood, and now you just looked sad. He figured it was because you did something you just told him you weren’t supposed to do. So he moved his hand back to your wrist, and with the other, opened your armed palm to take away what you were using to hurt yourself.

You did not fight back.

Taking your pin button, he looked it over to remember what it looked like so he could stop you from doing what you weren’t supposed to be doing if it happened again. Then he stood and set it on the nightstand next to his side of the bed before walking back to you.

He unexpectedly held out his hand to you.

You took it.

Michael pulled you up and walked you out of your room, down the stairs, and into your kitchen—still holding your hand and hardly giving you time to pull up your pants, leaving you awkwardly waddling while struggling to pull them up. When he reached the counter beside the sink, he let go of you and crouched down to get a washcloth out from a drawer. You realized he was going to wash your cuts.

You were too numb to be surprised.

Turning so your back was to the counter, you lifted yourself up onto it to make it easier on the 6’5” man.

You watched with unfocused eyes as Michael wetted the cloth and absently winced at the sudden cold that draped overtop your upper thigh. You hadn’t even noticed him pull your pants back down. After a couple seconds Michael peeled the cloth off your leg and started dabbing around the cuts, moving with a purpose. Calm and calculated. When he was satisfied, he moved to your stomach while you felt yourself falling back into your head, quiet and relaxed from the soft sounds of Michael’s breathing and the distant noise of running water. He repeated his process on your other two areas of abused skin, and you realized the small traces of blood leaking from some slashes were gone and there was no more persistent sting.

By the time Michael had finished soothing the cuts on the side of your shoulder with the cool cloth, he was practically positioned in between your legs, and you were in such close proximity to him that you could easily lean your head against his shoulder.

He let go of your arm and looked down at you, seemingly waiting, as if for your approval. You were too tired to give him a smile to show you were okay, and quite frankly, you didn’t think you were anyways, no matter how nice it felt to be cared for by someone you loved, whether their intention was to make you feel better or simply because it just needed to be done. So you did lean forward and rest your forehead against his shoulder. And he remained still. You could feel slight puffs of breath hitting the back of your neck and you closed your eyes at the feeling—the feeling of him. His warmth could be enough to ease you for the rest of the night, and his steady breathing helped to keep your own in perfect time with his.

You turned your head to the side, now resting it in the crook of his neck, and you felt him slowly press himself further into you. One of his arms remained at his side, the other with his hand still holding the counter, but you could’ve sworn his head hesitantly laid against your own.

You stayed like that for awhile, and when Michael felt your tired head ever so slightly lift off of him, he rather abruptly pulled away from you and went back to discarding the cloths he used and carrying on with his evening. He decided he’d keep a closer eye on you to make sure you weren’t making anymore lines on yourself. Though he himself never felt guilt, he could understand feeling frustrated with yourself and knew you regretted things you did sometimes, so he’d make sure you wouldn’t have to experience those feelings brought on by this situation again.

After Michael re-entered the kitchen to look over you one last time before leaving you alone, he made his way to your living room and plopped down on the couch, expecting you to go back up to your room. But you quietly followed after him and joined him, cautiously resting your head against his shoulder again and, when he didn’t move, wrapping your arms around his strong one and hugging it close to your body. You just wanted to be close to him—to someone you knew cared about you in some way, and someone who hadn’t ever judged you.

You knew Michael probably still didn’t fully understand the concept of self harm, but that was alright. At least now you had another reason to go back to working hard on coming out of this dark place you were in yet again: you did not want Michael to see you like that ever again—broken and hurting. You wanted to be strong like he was, and find better ways to deal with the intense emotions you felt. Like right now, laying against the man you loved as he turned on the tv to Spongebob. You didn’t need that sting to calm you and take your mind off the thoughts that clouded your brain—Michael’s slow and steady breathing was enough to relax you and his warmth ease your tense muscles and put you to sleep.

So you let it do just that, and Michael let you hold onto him the whole night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to apologize in general for me and Rebel’s nonexistent writing schedule... We’re still trying to figure out between the two of us how to get things written and what works, while keeping up with our own lives. I can say without hesitation that we both love to write, especially when it involves situations we deal with in real life—adding Michael :D So I hope to figure out a way to make this work more smoothly between us soon, and if not, just know that we will always have a passion for writing and that none of your requests will go unwritten ❤️
> 
> \- Wolf


	9. Trust In You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael trusts reader enough to take off his mask and show you his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Request by SaveTheBestForLast
> 
> \- Okay this one took me awhile to actually post simply because I had to work up the courage to 😅 It’s been done for a bit but I’ve just been going over things multiple times because Michael’s quite something to write, so I don’t want to get him wrong. But I hope you enjoy!

Michael sat outside in the darkness, staring up at the stars above him while absently fiddling with the grass beneath him. He’d often leave at night on his own to be alone with his thoughts and himself. But lately, even his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone; they were occupied with you.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t get you out of his head, or why it was growing difficult to not be around you. He wondered if it was because something in him that he wasn’t fully aware of was ready to kill you. But he hadn’t actually had one urge to do such a thing, and now, the idea just seemed ludicrous. Then that raised the question: why _was_ it ludicrous? He’d killed countless people—without remorse, emotion, mercy. However with you, he couldn’t seem to get past the first step—which was holding a knife to your throat.

He supposed, with a sigh, you had grown on him in _some_ way. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized just how unlike everyone else you were, and just how differently he felt about you. This made him wonder even more.

You had always been there for him, not only to feed him and clean his wounds, but to help take his mind off everything that usually occupied and plagued him, staying beside him when he felt a little more distant within his mind. And he couldn’t help but feel slight gratefulness towards your fussing over him; you always noticed when he seemed more stiff than usual, and you’d massage his muscles while ignoring his silent and sometimes physical protest, knowing he secretly did in fact want the attention; then there were the times you’d force him—or at least try—to make him stay home for the night and get some sleep, aware that he would appreciate it later in the event that he did get some much-needed rest.

Michael looked down at his hand that rested on his thigh. He slowly turned it over, studying the palm and fingertips that touched your soft skin countless times. The hands that touched and caressed you—the one who never ran away. And he could trust that you never would.

_Trust._

What a concept.

And for Michael? _Trust_ somebody? Yet here he was trusting you.

Michael abruptly stood from his spot on the ground, the grass beneath him still maintaining the imprint of him from how long he’d been sitting. He then made his way back to your house—the house you both lived in together. When he arrived, he went upstairs to find you laying in your bed—the bed you both slept in. He took this time to study your small form, the blanket draped over you subtly outlining your body.

Slowly, Michael walked to his side of the bed, crawling onto it and laying down on his side, facing you. You immediately opened your eyes, repositioning your head on your pillow to better look at him.

The room fell silent as you looked into each other’s eyes. Michael, considering what he was about to do, and you, waiting for whatever was to come. But you had not expected Michael’s hand to reach up to the bottom of his mask, and slowly—agonizingly slowly—lift it up and off of his face.

If he was going to trust you, he was going to trust you.

You immediately flushed and tilted your head down, not wanting to look; it would feel wrong, since he’s hidden himself away from you for so long, only slightly lifting it up to eat and for the rare occasions he’d let you kiss him properly. But then you felt large fingers softly grip your chin, tilting your head back up, and bringing your eyes back to the exposed man’s before you.

His eyes seemed lighter—now that his mask wasn’t there to cast shadows over them, and it was almost relieving to not have to look into two shining black pits, but instead a beautiful dark brown orb accompanied by a milky white one, injured long ago. You then looked over the rest of his face—cautiously, still feeling like he would change his mind and then kill you for seeing him outside of The Shape. But there was no snap, no sudden move to grab at you, so you took your time to study his surprisingly handsome face.

Every feature on Michael’s face was stunningly defined; there was his sharp jawline, his moderate cheekbones, his slender and rounded nose, and each characteristic seemed to compliment the other; the intensity of his hauntingly gorgeous eyes matched perfectly with his brows, which—if you looked hard enough past his initially blank facial expression—were seemingly always set in a way that appeared like he was slightly frowning. But without the mask, there was more to his appearance than you thought there’d be. Not just the constant, small frown of his face, but the tiny amount of tiredness that his eyes tried and failed to hide, made known by the darkness of the skin surrounding them, and the barely noticeable bags beneath them.

And your heart ached for the man that looked at you now, like he was waiting for something, though for what, you did not know.

Carefully, you reached your hand up to his face, delicately hovering your fingertips over his jaw, watching him for any sign of protest. When there was none that you could see, you gently traced down the soft skin of his jaw, the slight stubble you felt here and there subtly tickling the pads of your fingers. You moved your tips up the side of his face, looking deeply into his eyes as you did so, not watching so much for irritation anymore, but more for him—for _Michael_.

When you reached the end of his eyebrow, you switched to your thumb, tenderly moving it down the side of his wounded eye before softly swiping it across the dark area beneath it, seeing his gaze slightly soften. You placed your hand on his warm cheek, gently caressing it with your thumb.

Your mind had been completely silent, without any thoughts, your focus completely set on the Michael you had never seen—the _real_ Michael. The one behind the emotionless mask. You were still in disbelief that this was happening, that he was letting you do this—that he actually took off his mask for _you_.

Your eyes drifted down to his lips, and _God_ did they look so perfect; now that you were seeing them in this light, able to freely study their curves, their slight pink tint, the fullness of his bottom lip—and without a time limit.

You repositioned your hand against his jaw, moving your thumb to Michael’s mouth, lightly tracing his bottom lip and trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck from how noticeably soft it felt.

You raised your eyes back up to Michael’s, finding his gaze had not left your face. He seemed like he was about to fall asleep—his lids heavy and appearance softer than before.

“ _So tired_ ,” you noted quietly, a small smile forming on your lips at your comment.

Michael closed his eyes for a few seconds before reopening them, like he was blinking deeply, as if agreeing with you. Your smile widened and you continued to stare into his beautiful eyes, and he did the same.

A few more moments passed before you—in a dream—inched closer to the warmth emanating from his body, your mouths just centimeters from the other’s. You closed your eyes, enjoying the feeling of his nearness, still feeling his eyes on you the whole time as you slowly brought your lips to his, ghosting over them. You sighed at the sudden intimacy you felt, shivering slightly when you felt Michael’s steady breaths touch your skin.

You didn’t know what had compelled Michael to take his mask off, let alone allow you to study him as closely as you were. It was a silent understanding between the two of you that what was behind the expressionless, white mask was the _human being_ committing all the murder, the _man_ with the voices and the rage and the animalistic urge to kill. The mask was just another wall he kept up—a wall that helped remind himself and others that he was a ruthless killer, not one to sympathize with someone and feel remorse simply because he was human. You knew in a way it made him feel vulnerable, not having that mask—that barrier to hide his face. He preferred the safety his mask provided him, so he never had wanted to take it off; he hated to feel vulnerable, exposed.

He didn’t realize it then, but that’s all he was when he was in Smith’s Grove—vulnerable and exposed.

All this you had picked up on over the long amount of time you were with him. His mask was just a part of him, and you never fought him to take it off. If it made him feel comfortable around you, so be it—you were happy to give him that.

And now here you were, your lips almost pressed to his, hand against his bare face which he had revealed to you of his own accord, and you still had no idea why.

But _man_ did you love him for it.

That he trusted you enough for this.

That he _trusted you_.

You at last connected your lips to his, gently and with as much love and care as you could. He remained still, and you could still feel his eyes on you, watching you closely, but not in a way that made it seem as if he were apprehensive about the situation. He was simply watching you. How you responded to him revealing himself to you. To him giving you all his trust.

You took your time kissing him, feeling like the world around you had stopped just for this, and like you both could be here forever. His lips were unexpectedly soft, and you suddenly had no idea how or why he seemed so perfect—at least he was to you. And it made your face heat up and your heart pound.

Your hand slowly slid up his face and into his wavy hair, tenderly and cautiously tangling your fingers in the brown locks before unhurriedly stroking it back from his face, enjoying the smooth texture. You felt Michael gradually sink into the bed, and more into you as you continued your soft, loving touches and delicate, tender kisses. You could’ve sworn he was subtly responding to your lips, though just barely. But that only set loose more butterflies in your stomach—no matter how many times he’s kissed you back, though brief and sometimes hardly, you never failed to turn into a flustered mess.

The surreality of the evening began to weigh on you as you continued your show of pure affection, and your lids began to feel heavy from the overwhelming sensations the beautiful man laying with you was making you feel. So you slowly pulled away from him, disconnecting your lips from his and reopening your eyes to find him still looking at you. And you took note of how tired his eyes looked as well, like he could fall asleep at any moment.

At this point, you had lost track of how many new and surprising things you’ve seen of Michael.

It had been a long night.

Well—a good long fifteen minutes.

You brushed the hair that kept falling across his forehead back from his face one last time before giving him a small, tired smile, and then tucking your head underneath his chin, forehead against the top of his sternum. You hadn’t even registered until this point the hand resting on your side until it slowly moved across your back to wrap around your waist, pulling you close with the other arm that winded around your small form. You felt Michael’s head rest atop yours and you sighed again, placing your hand against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat.

So Michael had trust in you. It was still something he’d consider, a feeling he’d study—he hadn’t really even known he _could_ trust. But something in him just knew that if there was one person he could count on in his lonely, dark world, it was you. Always you. And as he held you in his arms, without the mask he’d relied on to keep himself hidden away for so long—he’d never felt so safe.


	10. Lost Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael’s been very busy during October and finds a way to make to make it up to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Rebel  
> Request by SaveTheBestForLast  
> Warning: Mild violence
> 
> \- So it’s been quite a bit of time since I’ve last posted something but I’m hoping to get back into it and start writing more frequently. I hope you enjoy! Also thank you for the great requests SaveTheBestForLast!

The last few months with Michael have been difficult. Not because his killing had bothered you or you didn’t have a common thing to talk about so you couldn’t connect with him—it was the opposite actually. His urges had gotten stronger and harder to ignore, especially considering that it was nearing the end of October. You tried helping him in any way you could, which wasn’t much but it was the most you could possibly think to do. You did what you normally would to help him but with more careful consideration like making him more meals, cleaning his clothes more often, and making him more comfortable on the rare occasion when he was home. Sure, it was hard not seeing Michael as much as you would like, but it was better than nothing, and you understood that Michael was most definitely having a more hard time than you were. Still, you missed him. 

Looking over at the clock on your nightstand, it read  _ 1:36am _ . Michael had been out almost all day since noon presumably stalking his next victims and carefully plotting out when and how to strike. Normally Michael wouldn’t go out until later at night and would kill when he saw fit, but you noticed that the voices seemed to be controlling him more lately, and his urges grew with every passing day that grew closer to Halloween. Part of you realizes that Michael knows what he’s doing because he’s been doing it for years, but another part of you was slightly scared for him because you didn’t want him to hurt himself or wear himself down to the point of extreme exhaustion. You could say that Michael knew his limits, but lately you weren’t sure if he did. 

You sighed and sank into the coolness of your bed, absent of Michael’s warmth. Based on Michael’s patterns of when he arrived home—typically around 12:00-1:00am—you decided it was time to head to bed. 

Going to bed wasn’t as nice with not having Michael to curl up next to. The bed felt empty and cold and you wished Michael would come home. With that thought you laid down in bed and tried to fall asleep. 

><><><

Shuffling noises and the sound of a door shutting came from outside your bedroom. You heard the sound of the shower turning on from the bathroom across from your room. You sighed and lifted your head off your pillow, glancing at the time.  _ 2:01am _ . 

_ ‘Home  _ much  _ later than last night,’  _ you thought. 

You wanted to get up and meet Michael because it’s been pretty much the whole day since you’ve seen him, but you were so tired that your limbs felt like lead and you couldn’t bring yourself to get up. 

Deciding to stay in bed, you let your head sink into the pillow for what felt like a few seconds until you heard the shower turn off. You were teetering on the edge of sleep when Michael came through your bedroom door. Of course you couldn’t be mad at him for going out more frequently this time of year, and the only thing you really felt for him right now was longing. 

Michael slumped into the bed right next to you. He assumed you were asleep, considering how late it was, but you curled into him and saw you weren’t asleep.

“Love you, Michael,” you said softly, no longer able to fight your tiredness, and began drifting into sleep. Michael tiredly sighed and placed his arm around your lower back. Silently, he somewhat appreciated that you stayed up for him. With that, he shut his eyes and drifted off into sleep too. 

><><><

It was only 6:47am when Michael woke up to your arm wrapped around his waist and your head resting slightly on his shoulder. He concentrated on the slow and steady pattern of your breathing that he felt softly puff on his neck. The warmth of you against him felt good, and somewhere inside of him he didn’t want to ever leave. 

The voices began and split his head in two. 

They urged him to go out and stalk and kill his next victims. They grew louder and louder until they were insufferable and the only thing he could now concentrate on was the pounding of their demands in his skull. His breathing became heavier and he grunted with the suddenness of their arrival. You stirred in Michael’s arms and his attention was diverted to you. He knew he had to get up and leave your affectionate embrace. He grabbed the arm that wrapped around his waist and moved himself out from under you with an unwanted grunt, and placed your arm on his now empty spot. 

Michael’s muscles subtly ached and he could feel the slight bit of exhaustion pulling on his body and burning behind his eyes. He grasped his knife that rested on your night table—which was barely noticeable as no light reflected off of the knife. 

A slight hate swelled in his chest as he stepped out of your bedroom door and downstairs towards the front door. He sighed as he unlocked the door and swung it open. The cold breeze of the night air lightly brushed him and the only things illuminating him was the dim street lights and a sliver of moonlight. He stepped out of the doorway and onto the porch, evaluating his next moves. 

Michael noticed a man jogging on the opposite sidewalk from your house. Michael slowly tilted his head while looking at the man who was running a steady pace.  _ Why would someone be up this early just to run?  _ He guessed he could ask himself the same question, considering he was up this early to make other people run. 

Obviously Michael would be able to keep up with the jogger—even if the man was athletically fit or not—Michael was pretty confident with his own physical abilities. The man neared the edge of the street and Michael weighed in his head whether or not he was worth his time. 

He shook his head.  _ Too easy _ . 

Michael made his way into the shadows between houses and kept note in his mind possible future victims. The eerie quiet of the night was strangely peaceful, and for a moment the voices dulled. 

Then a light shone from the second story window of a house across the street. The voices returned and prompted Michael to make any sort of move towards killing whoever inhabited that house. He abruptly took a step towards the house, analyzing his next moves, and the voices grew louder—more demanding. His grip on his knife became tighter and his knuckles turned white. The voices cut through any outside sound and it became pretty much the only thing he could focus on: the urge to kill. 

Michael made his way across the street and to the side of the house that held his victim. There was a wood fence and gate at the back of the house that Michael approached. The fence seemed to be about six foot tall, almost taller than Michael, and even if he wanted to climb the fence it would be a pain in the ass. Fortunately, the gate had a single latch on it with no lock on it. 

Michael inwardly rolled his eyes.  _ Stupid _ . 

The gate opened with ease except for a single loud squeak escaping from the hinges. It was barely audible to Michael because of the voices drowning out most outside noise. He entered into the backyard and noticed the back sliding glass porch door that led into the house. He briskly walked up to the sliding doors and tested if they were locked. Surely enough they were.  _ At least they’re not incredibly stupid.  _

Michael knocked loudly on the glass door and moved swiftly towards the other side of the door next to the opening. He heard the door latch unlocking and the door sliding open. A man stood at the door and looked to see where the noise came from. It was pitch black outside, making Michael practically invisible to him. Stupidly, the man didn’t think to turn on his back porch light and shrugged it off. Michael decided he wanted to screw with him. He rapped his knuckles on the glass door again, but this time stepping to a much less visible spot on the side of the house. The man approached the door again. 

“The hell?” The man muttered under his breath. He turned on the porch light and his eyes scanned his backyard for any intruders, but finding none. Michael, too impatient for any more games, grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt just as he was about to head back into his house. The man let out a loud yelp and it was cut off by Michael shoving him hard into the side of the house. The man instinctively tried to fight Michael by shoving him and erratically hitting him, and in his feeble actions of panic, the man managed to hit Michael square in the jaw. 

_ Damn.  _ Michael wasn’t going to lie—the guy packed a bit of a punch, and it was a shame he’d done that.  _ To think you were going to be let off  _ easy. If Michael chuckled, he sure would have at the man’s pitiful attempt of escaping. Once Michael had you in his mind as a target, that was it, and there would be no escaping it. 

Originally, Michael was just going to off the guy and call it a day since he already had some fun with him, but the man managed to piss him off so he wasn’t going to be let off easily. Michael took the hand that was grabbing his collar and quickly moved it to his throat. The action was like a snake reeling back and lunging at its victim. A grunt escaped the man’s throat and his hand immediately flew up to latch onto Michael’s hand to pull it away. Michael’s grip was light enough not to fully constrict his airway, but hard enough to let him know that he could. Michael saw something shift in the man’s eyes, as if he knew that he was going to die, but Michael wasn’t dumb—he knew that he’d go out fighting. The knife that was gripped in Michael’s hand reflected in a glimmer of light from the porch light and caught the man’s attention, causing his breath—or whatever was left of it—to hitch in his throat. He thought that if Michael was just armed with his bare hands that he would be able to fight back, but now that he realized he had a knife he knew there was no chance. 

Michael breathed out a puff of air and mockingly dropped the man to the ground and watched him get up and try to scurry away back into his house. With ease, Michael grabbed the handle of the sliding door and slammed it on the man, catching his leg on it just as he had stumbled inside. Upon impact his leg had made a loud pop that sounded like the crackling of fire burning logs. 

“ _ Shit!”  _ The man groaned in agony. He stayed there on the floor, just slightly inside his house, and stared up at Michael who was staring down at him—blankly and emotionlessly. The man dragged himself backwards on his forearms, pulling his now limp leg along with him. Michael’s head cocked to the side almost with amusement, and mocked the man again. With each inch the man made his way backwards the voices in Michael’s head urged him more to kill him.  _ No more games.  _

Michael lunged forward, kneeling down, and held the man down by his throat. His knife was tightly held in his hand and ready to be plunged into his abdomen. The man squirmed underneath his grasp and Michael, very quickly, became over his annoying attempts at surviving. Michael shoved the knife into the man’s stomach and pulled it upwards towards his chest. Blood poured immediately onto the floor into a pool of scarlet red. The blood stained the leg of the coveralls he was kneeling on and coated his boots. He twisted the knife into the man and removed it, allowing him to bleed out as a final move to end his life, and the remaining air left in his lungs left his body as his eyes turned lifeless. Michael stared down at him admiring his work. 

As Michael was admiring the wounds and lifelessness of the man, the floorboards creaked. 

Michael shot upwards, knife in hand, and stared in front of him. A woman stood there in the entryway to the room, shock and fear clearly displayed on her face. She glanced down at the body and back up to Michael. Michael took one step towards her and the woman only tensed slightly, unmoving from her spot. Michael took a few more steps until he was right in front of her. The woman didn’t step away from him, she held her ground but averted her gaze from him. Michael noted her confidence (or foolishness)—in a way it reminded him of you, but that wasn’t going to change her fate. 

Michael tilted his head down at her and raised his empty hand to her throat, grabbing it harshly. The woman let out a tiny squeak and her hands instinctively flew up to Michael’s arms in an attempt to release them. He observed her intently. Her skin was pale, her body fragile, and had dark circles under her eyes. She looked like if he didn’t kill her now that she would be due for death very soon. If Michael were to grip her throat any harder it would probably snap in two as easily as a toothpick. The woman decided to fight back by clawing her nails into Michael’s forearms, but Michael was unbothered—if anything, he just grew more annoyed. 

As Michael raised the knife towards her, the woman seemed to have come to a realization and then relaxed. She relaxed in a way that was of defeat, not comfort. Her hold on Michael’s forearms became less tense and her eyes slowly shut. It was like she was ready to die, maybe even wanted to. 

The voices slowly crescendoed as he looked down at her weak form. An easy victim that would hopefully make his voices subside even in the slightest bit. Deciding to make it quick, he tightened his hold on her throat until he felt and heard the snapping of her neck. She almost instantly went limp in his grasp and as soon as the last breath left her lungs Michael carelessly dropped her to the floor. The voices went from a pulsing ache in his temples to an eerie quiet. It was like if someone had the volume all the way up on a tv and suddenly muted it without warning. 

Michael sighed and turned to leave back out the sliding doors when something caught his eye. The outside light from the backyard porch light caught something silver that shined on a table near the doors. Michael saw it, briskly grabbed it, and left the house. 

~•~•~•~

The reddish-orange sun peeked through the cracks of your curtains and slightly illuminated your room with streaks of light. For some reason it made you think of Michael’s eyes, and how pretty they would look in this light. You smiled to yourself with the thought of Michael, and turned to where he slept last night; already sad again because you knew he wasn’t there. Suddenly you felt heavy and didn’t want to get out of bed. Not the tired heavy where every part of your body wanted to sleep. It was the heavy that made you feel like your chest was being pushed on—like you were being suffocated on the inside—and the only thing you could do was lay there and let it happen. But you didn’t want to sit there in your own pity for the whole day, so you reluctantly forced yourself out of bed. You got up and got ready like you normally would in the morning with the thought of Michael in the back of your mind. 

Some part of you silently hoped that Michael would be downstairs sitting in the living room or in the kitchen preparing a meal for himself. The other part of you knew what Michael was going through and made you remember that Michael was coping; coping with the voices that almost constantly urged him to kill. It being October didn’t make anything better for him as each day grew closer and closer to Halloween. 

You sighed, looking in the mirror and pushing your hair away from your face. The bags and dark circles under your eyes looked more prominent than usual—most likely due to the late nights that you’d spend sitting up, staring at the clock and unable to sleep waiting for Michael. Sighing, you turned on your sink and splashed water on your face thinking it would somehow erase the tired look in your eyes. 

A slow burning jealousy grew in your chest. The people that Michael killed everyday got to see him more than you did. Although that’s not necessarily a good thing on their part, you still wished you got to see Michael that much. You would give anything to have Michael back like things were before October when he wasn't preoccupied with his annual ritual. He couldn’t help it though and you knew that, but it still didn’t change the fact you missed him and wished he would come home. 

Walking outside of your bathroom you thought about what you were going to do for the day. Your schedule was pretty booked: tv, food, video games, more tv, maybe even get wild with a book. You chuckled to yourself sadly with this thought. 

Just as you were about to head into your room, something clattered from downstairs, like something fell. 

“Michael?” You asked aloud and began to make your way downstairs. A slight hope swelled and you couldn’t help it. When you made it downstairs and walked into the room where you thought the source of the sound came from and saw that there was no Michael in sight, you couldn’t help but be disappointed. The sound came from the wind blowing over a chair from outside. You sighed and shook your head realizing how desperately eager you probably looked. You turned around to head to the living room, deciding that you weren’t hungry yet, when you ran right into what felt like a brick wall. 

Michael stood in front of you and stared down at you blankly. You were immediately overwhelmed with happiness and every negative feeling you felt that morning was pretty much forgotten. Before you could rush to hug Michael he held out his flat palm in front of you. Confused, you looked down at it to see what he was trying to show you. There was a silver chain splayed out on his hand and when you looked further you saw a little diamond pendant on the chain. A necklace. 

“For me?” You smiled wide and looked back up at him.  _ No, it’s for me.  _ Michael slowly nodded his head yes _.  _ He held the necklace out, urging you to take it. You took the necklace from his hand, your fingers brushing his palm as you did so, and admired it. The necklace was beautiful, and you didn’t care where or who he got it from because it was such a nice gesture. It made you realize that even while Michael was out he was still thinking about you. 

“Can you help me put it on?” You held out the necklace, gesturing it to Michael. He stared at you and thought about it for a moment before he put his hand out. You dropped the necklace in his hand and turned your back to him and moved your hair to one side so Michael could put it on. Michael fumbled with the clasp until he got it open and he put it over your head and then draped it around your neck. Michael fumbled with the clasp again for a minute until he finally managed to clip the necklace into place. Before stepping away after putting it on you, Michael took your hair that all rested on your shoulder and moved it back into its usual place. 

You turned around to face him and smiled, “thank you, Michael.” 

He took a slight step closer to you and hesitantly and very slowly pulled you into him with his arm on your shoulder. Shocked and also extremely happy, you wrapped your arms tightly around Michael’s waist. He must have showered before you woke up because you were enveloped by his nice smell and he smelled clean. As Michael adjusted to the embrace he became more relaxed and sighed into the hug. You rubbed his back and Michael rested his forehead on top of your head. You were certain that he was tired because the more you rubbed his back, the more he sank into the hug and the more slowed his breathing became. The contact must have also made him feel comforted because he seemed exhausted and like he ached. 

“Let’s go relax,” you mumbled into Michael’s chest. Michael definitely agreed with you and broke the hug by walking into the living room and plopping onto the couch. You followed him and sat down beside him, laying your head on his chest and slowly started to rub his arm. Michael sighed and you reached for the necklace around your neck and held it between your fingers. You’ve missed him so much and it was like he read your mind, and you were so happy to have this moment with Michael. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! 🖤


	11. The Pasta Prank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader asks Michael to crack their back, but has a surprise in store for him for when he does...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work by Wolf  
> Request by dry_tadpole
> 
> \- This was really entertaining to write, so I really hope you all get as much fun out of this as I did XD

A prolonged, deep growl sounded from your stomach, interrupting the silence of the room with its loud rumble. You bit your lip with slight embarrassment and glanced up at Michael to find him staring you down. Awkwardly shifting your weight in your seat under his scrutinous gaze, you spoke up, “Guess it’s time I finally feed us today, huh?” 

He gave a slow nod in response, clearly unhappy that you still had yet to cook him something and it was nearly dinner time. You chuckled at the fact that all day he was probably annoyed with how much you were working, neglecting both him and apparently yourself, and now your stomach had finally proven his irritation to you, loudly and proudly.

You stood and meandered to your kitchen to look for some food, searching through the contents of your fridge and finding nothing appetizing. Moving to look around in your pantry, you were disappointed at what it contained—or at what it didn’t contain. You frowned before grabbing the bag of uncooked noodles that your eyes ultimately landed upon, and set to work on boiling some water for them. As you waited, you opened the bag of hard pasta and popped the tiny ribbonlike strip into your mouth, letting the noodle soften on your tongue for a few moments before biting down with a loud crunch.

_Jeez, sounds like I just shattered my jaw_ ,  you thought to yourself, and then you froze. 

_Of course!_

_ How have I not done this yet?? _

With newfound excitement, you popped another uncooked noodle into your mouth and moved it under your tongue, and with one last glance at your still-hardly-bubbling-yet water, you sped back into the living room. 

“Hey Michael?” You tapped his shoulder a few times to get his attention.

He slowly moved his head up at you beside him, his eyes looking completely unamused.

_Oh this is great timing (y/n), he’s really gonna love this_ , you inwardly remarked at your stupidity, but this was more for your entertainment than his.

“Can you crack my back real quick? Sitting all day’s not been good on my spine,” you said casually, trying not to let the hard strip of pasta underneath your tongue noticeably get in the way of your talking.

Michael gave you a look, and you knew why; why should he help you when you did that to yourself? It’s not his fault your back is all messed up from being curled up in the same position all day, so why should he care? So you smiled and nodded at him, understanding why your little lie wasn’t working so far.

But it was too late to back down now.

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry for not taking care of you today, and I know it’s frustrating when I’m super busy and forget to make us lunch and stuff. But I can make it up to you?” you offered, your grin hopeful.

He kept looking at you, and you quickly thought up how you’d actually get him to forgive you so your devious little plan could carry on.

“How ‘bout this: breakfast in bed tomorrow—and I won’t yell at you for getting crumbs all over the sheets, plus  _ two _ —that’s right— _ two _ lunches. How’s that sound?” And you knew you’d won this round.

Satisfied with your deal, Michael sighed and stood up to do the stupid back-crack thing for you.

“ _ Thank _ you,” you tried to sound grateful, but you were only in this for the prank you were about to pull on the giant serial killer.

You turned around, repositioning the hard noodle between your molars, and smirking when you felt Michael’s arms wrap around your arms and small torso.

 _ It’s happeniiiingg~ _ , you thought, and held back the giggle arising in your throat.

You were easily lifted into the air, and in your eagerness, you had to remember to time it perfectly or it wouldn’t work. It was when you felt his strong arms bounce you downwards that you chomped down on the solid pasta, eliciting the loudest crack you’ve ever heard, and matching up flawlessly with Michael’s movement to crack your back. You couldn’t’ve been more proud, and would’ve flat out said “ _ yesss! _ ” if it weren’t for the internal reminder that you had a role to play next in your little prank on him.

As soon as the sudden loud noise resounded throughout the living room, Michael slightly startled, immediately releasing his hold on you and causing you to use the best acting skills you had within you to not let out a cry from the ground colliding with your body without warning.

Michael looked down at you with... worry? Confusion? Um, were you okay? _Oh my god. Did—did he just kill you?_

_Fuck._

Michael bent over you to look over you more closely, tilting his head left to right, studying, taking note of how— _ shit, you’re not moving. _

He dropped to a knee at your side and placed a hand on your shoulder, gripping it tightly as he lightly shook you, noting how there was still no rise and fall to your chest.

But he didn’t want to believe it.  _ There’s no way. He didn’t crack your back  _ that _ hard enough. Right? _

He moved to both knees and shook you a little harder, this time turning you onto your back as he did so.

And still nothing.

_Hoooooly shit._

Michael couldn’t help the small grunt of frustration that escaped his throat at the fact that you weren’t waking up.

 _Why the fuck would you die from getting your_ back _cracked?? Are you actually fucking serious?_ —

Then he saw your mouth twitch.

“...”

Gripping both of your upper arms, Michael lifted you up to shake you as roughly as he could, your head flailing about atop your shoulders for a few moments before you felt a bit of dry pasta absolutely nail the back of your throat.

You instantly coughed, no longer able to play dead at the fact that you were on the verge of choking—then you’d  _ actually _ be playing dead.

And you don’t know, you actually kinda like living.

Michael released his intense grasp on your arms and watched in shock as you hacked up a dried noodle onto the floor, and he felt anger begin to bubble within him.

You couldn’t help the wheeze that suddenly exploded from you at the fact that you pranked Michael and he totally fell for it—cruel as the joke may have been.

When you finally looked up at him through watery eyes from your minor coughing fit, you’ve never seen someone so unhappy.

“Dude... I got you  _so_ good—and I’m _actually_ so sorry,” you finished with another wheeze of laughter.

Michael clearly didn’t want to deal with you at the moment, which was understandable seeing as you made him think he literally broke your spine in two. He abruptly stood and began walking away from you and you, pushing through your laughter, tried to stop him from leaving by grabbing at his large hand.

“Waiwaiwait okayokay, I’ll stop, I’ll sto—“ your third wheeze cut you off as you weren’t able to contain your hysterics.

After scrambling to your feet and stumbling over to Michael who was still hurrying to get away from you, you grabbed onto his arm, causing him to spin around with a glare so intense you actually backed away, your laughs instantly dying in your throat.

“Hear me out—“ Michael took an aggressive step towards you “—hear!... me out,” you caught yourself, and spoke softer. “I knew you weren’t gonna appreciate it  _now_ but it’s pretty funny when you think about it!” you tried to explain, wincing when Michael tilted his head at you dangerously. “Okay,  _clearly_ no explanation can make it better, so I apologize, and I won’t make you think you accidentally killed me ever again,” you finished, pressing your lips together to keep from a smile.

A few moments of silence passed and Michael’s gaze had hardly softened.

You placed a gentle hand just over his heart, feeling it pounding in his chest, and you gave him a light pat.

“I love you,” you told him sweetly, and to that, he lifted himself back up to his full height and allowed his eyes to look past and over you.

He looked completely done.

“Okay,” you whispered, patting his chest once more before letting your hand fall back to your side, and he walked forward, brushing past you and heading straight for your kitchen.

_Most likely getting some food..._ you thought.

In the background you could hear a faint fizzing sound.

“ _Shit!_ The water!” you remembered, and quickly sped-walked after Michael into your kitchen.

Off to go boil some noodles. 


End file.
